


Let's Set The World On Fire

by wheninkspeaks



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beta: @hackettout (tumblr), F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheninkspeaks/pseuds/wheninkspeaks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana Lopez spent the first year at college swaggering down hallways, hitting high scores on her papers and kicking fine ass on the dojo. It was all too predictable at first – hit on them, get them in your bed, form some kind of oddly symbiotic relationship with the top 0.2% of the New York hotness scale and then go on to live the rest of your un-buzzed day life. But then year two comes along and suddenly, Santana finds herself briefed by her Family days, rather than hours, in advance about the one Quinn Fabray.</p><p>The plan is simple: stay safe, leave her alone and maintain that awkwardly polite working relationship between the two Families.</p><p>But when the two girls grow way closer than either had planned, it turns out to be a year neither of them will forget.</p><p>It turns out to be a year of successful gambles, of emotional comebacks and of irreversible decisions.</p><p>It turns out to be a year that teaches Santana exactly what it means to be a Lopez.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So If By The Time The Bar Closes

Santana has her books in one arm and her  _gi_ under the other, her hair still wet from the showers as she walks towards the field and takes a seat at the bleachers. It's not part of her usual schedule to end training before Puck does, or to ever wait for him, but today Santana makes an exception.

Her eyes fleet back and forth from Puck performing some drills to Sam who's conducting the trials, until she identifies the awkwardly tall boy. From what she can see, he isn't much of a threat physically, nor much of a quarterback, especially when compared to Sam.

But then again, he wasn't the one her family warned her about – Finn Hudson wasn't the one Mackenzie pointed out and specifically told Santana not to get "too close" to, as if Santana has been in every pretty girl's knickers. Well maybe she has a pretty good track record, but a Lopez has more self-control than that.

Santana frowns against the sunlight as she watches Sam wean the recruits into a friendly game, one that turns out to be less than friendly when Puck immediately goes for Finn and knocks him to the ground with a monstrous tackle, all before looking up and sending a confident smirk to Santana. The move, combined with Sam's helpless shrug and the look of defeat on Finn's face, has Santana chuckling and losing focus for just a moment, until she hears that crisp voice behind her.

"The football tryouts aren't over?"

Santana turns sharply at the sound and immediately recognises her, her long blonde hair pulled to one side and wearing a white blouse with a long flowing cream-coloured skirt like she just waltzed out of some fucking magazine.

Maybe there was due case for Mack to get worried after all.

So Quinn Fabray's fucking beautiful, but it's not enough to derail Santana Lopez just yet, as she flashes the girl her default, charming smile and shakes her head.

There is a curious silence that follows thereafter, where Santana can feel her sitting just next to her and even though she's looking towards the field with a trained look of disinterest, Santana's doing anything but watching the game. Instead, she's estimating how tall the girl is, where would be good to strike if ever necessary, you know, that kind of thing. Information that Mack has already presented to her in figures and pictures, but that which Santana much prefers to collate personally, nonetheless. Just in case she ever needs it, it's good to know that her life depends on information that is reliable.

Santana's pretty impressed with herself – and Mack's accuracy – until she feels those hazel eyes trained on her as her name is enunciated slowly, deliberately and almost warmly.

"Santana Lopez."

Santana knows it shouldn't unsettle her as much as it does: after all, the name's pretty famous even without her unique family background. Still, it takes a second longer for Santana to compose herself and reply calmly.

"Quinn Fabray."

There's a moment when all Santana notices is the slight raise of Quinn's perfectly trimmed eyebrows, before a loud whistle signals the end of the tryouts and a cold smile spreads across Quinn's face as Santana hurries to break their eye contact.

_Fuck._

Santana hadn't been prepared to meet her like that, much less let her leave like that – that skirt sashaying with a somewhat annoying confidence in her step. Santana can only imagine how disgusted Mack and her granduncles will be with that dismal performance while her mother just holds her hand and gives her that sympathetic look like she's still her baby, and her father will just come home after his shift like there isn't even a problem at all.

Her brain is trying desperately to devise a strategy to undo whatever damage she had just done when Puck and Sam take seats on either side of her and – quite thankfully – distract her from it.

"He's not worth our time."

"I've heard your ego talk. Now I want to hear Puck, you know the asshole."

She earns herself a groan and a playful punch to her left should before he replies, a look of seriousness composed on his face.

"His physique isn't terrible but the technique's not there."

Santana looks to Sam for an evaluation and when he just shrugs and nods, she smiles just a little. Sam's only thinking of football, but Santana knows that Puck has taken the chance to check out both Hudson's football skills and whether or not he's a threat to his position as undisputed best fighter in the school, perhaps the neighbourhood. It's a little comforting just to be able to strike one name off the Fabray danger list.

It always is, but after that last encounter, it seems that much more important.

"Then he's a dumbass for trying out for quarterback."

"Fuck yeah, Sam's way better."

She expects some kind of shy goofy remark from Sam, but instead she finds him watching Quinn pass her books to Finn ( _no, the way he walks, he ought to be called Finnessa or something_ ) and tread daintily across the field.

"Who's that?"

"Quinn Fabray. Year two, journalism and minor in photography. She did a year in England before transferring under special circumstances."

Puck scoffs at that last bit and Santana knows that she has said way more than Mack would have preferred but she knows she can trust Sam. It's the one thing a year of salsa, nachos and Call of Duty guarantees you. Because instead of asking how or why, he just nods and turns to meet her gaze with a huge smile (seriously it's fucking scary, after a year and Santana's still trying to get used to how big his mouth is).

"Fifty."

"Fuck, Lopez no–"

"Done."

Santana tells herself that it's her pride that makes her throw away the worried look that Puck is sending her. And maybe the fact that the Fabray girl has such a sweet ass, that long flowing skirt can't even hide it. It may have been some time since Sam contested her for any girl and about as long since Santana even considered pursuing one, what with Brittany around, but there's something  _more_. In a way, it feels like Quinn herself is issuing the challenge too and that compels Santana to say yes. Regardless, Santana Lopez always loves a challenge.

* * *

Santana decides to play the long game this time – something flamboyant and direct will definitely attract Quinn's attention the way Sam's abs after football training does, but it'll also earn her some unnecessary nagging from Mack. Not that Mack doesn't already know, but given that the two Families aren't exactly at war, it's not entirely an issue.

In fact, as her mother puts it, the Lopez Family marched from Colombia and kicked the Italians off their turf, so it's not like the Fabrays have anything to complain about. As long as the Fabrays stay away from the drugs, whatever they do – arms trafficking, money laundering or anything else – is no one else's problem.

Still, Mack's an over-cautious bitch (a trait the Family actually appreciates) and even though she goes around in that ridiculous punk outfit and that carefully preened, almost fluffy hair, the girl has a mean right hook and Santana knows better than to risk it.

So instead of just talking her up at the Starbucks outlet where the girl always buys herself a tall soy hazelnut latte, Santana takes a few carefully-timed walks by her lecture theatre, mysteriously appears at places where photography classes are held and just once, bumps into her at the library. Each time, all Santana does is smile at her knowingly and all Quinn does is raise an eyebrow.

It goes on for about nine days (that's a long game for Santana Lopez alright) and then Santana walks by Starbucks only to see Quinn Fabray talking to Rachel fucking Berry, like they are actually friends or something, as if that's even logically possible.

Seriously, Santana doesn't know how anyone stays beside her for five minutes without dying from that excessively egoistic jabbering. She also doesn't get why Puck is mentally torturing himself in pursuit of her but then Santana looks down and right– there are those legs. Anyway, it's the perfect excuse she needs to swoop in and talk to her, plus get one step closer to that fifty dollars, so Santana pushes the glass door open and wastes no time.

"Man-hands, Quinn Fabray." Santana nods towards both of them and unceremoniously sits at their table.

"Santana, how pleasant it is to see you around!"

Rachel's exclamation is filled with more pleasant feelings that Santana can figure and suddenly Santana's glad that Puck isn't around to screw up her game by being the dumb wingman stumbling over his own hormonal attraction. It's a wonder why Rachel Berry even entertains him and if she didn't know better, she'd think they were already fucking, you know with the way they make disgusting googly eyes at each other from afar, but  _no_  of course they're  _just_   _friends_.

"Barbara Streisand's autobiography just got shipped into the library. Pretty sure there's only one hardcover copy."

Rachel Berry barely manages to string together their names, an apology and some overly dramatic fangirling before she grabs her bags and runs out of the outlet with a mission. Santana's still appreciating her fine work when Quinn's voice once again manages to surprise her.

"Barbara Streisand doesn't have an autobiography; you're lying."

"Yeah, I was." Santana shrugs and sends across a sheepish smile. She's not even going to ask why Quinn Fabray knows whether or not Berry's hero has an autobiography because god knows that if the two of them are sleeping together, Santana might just puke over the image. So instead, Santana pushes aside Rachel's cup and leans forward a little, staring into Quinn's hazel eyes.

"So, aren't you a bit too much of a corporate sell-out for someone who just spent a year in London?"

A small chuckle escapes Quinn's lips and it sends a curious shiver down Santana's spine, like she's doing something wrong when she's pretty sure she ticked off everything on the flirt-like-a-goddess checklist.

"Yes," Quinn admits quietly with a small nod of her head but turns to look up confidently, "and it looks like I have a stalker."

"Just general knowledge, Fabray."

"So does half the school know my entire timetable as well?"

"If only half this school was smart enough."

Santana controls her laughter from their verbal sparring, amused by the fact that few would have dared to talk back to her, much less find an appropriately snarky remark. It's a sentiment she thinks Quinn shares, because in a moment there's a challenge in their locked gaze and both of them are equally desperate to win.

"So," then a hesitant pause, "are you going to show me good coffee?"

And ten points to Santana Lopez.

Santana smiles and leans over to write her number on the back of Quinn's hand, momentarily embarrassed by how much smoother it is compared to hers, but she manages to scribble the number anyway. She's surprised not by how composed it looks – Santana's ridiculously used to dispensing her number, especially to someone as hot as Quinn – but rather, she's surprised by Quinn's lack of resistance.

And when Santana looks up, she thinks she spots shyness behind Quinn's strong gaze and perfect smile as she instructs firmly.

"Colombian coffee, Friday three in the afternoon, meet me at the  _dojo_."

Santana doesn't wait for a reply as she strides out of the outlet, not looking back once. It's not exactly polite or gentlemanly, but she thinks it's a befitting move. You know, what with the way she had to watch Quinn walk away at the bleachers. And no, Santana Lopez doesn't just  _forget_.

* * *

Santana can feel Brittany's breasts against her bare back and those slender arms around her waist as Brittany's fingers interlock against her stomach. The two of them are warm, sticky and so ridiculously close together, Santana thinks she should be suffocating.

But instead, she shifts backwards a little, moulding their bodies together and in the quiet of the early morning, breathes slowly.  _Just two minutes_ , she tells herself. It's like every other morning she shares with Brittany – if you can even call it sharing at all, given the fact she's kind of the only person making that decision. It's in those two minutes that she lets her mind wander and think about what it'd be like to stay in the same apartment as her best friend, to go out for a movie without worrying about who might see Brittany, to have a life beyond each strangled morning. It's a small window of time that Santana sometimes thinks is better than the sex itself. Or at least close enough anyway.

So when she carefully pulls herself apart from Brittany, the other girl struggling, it almost hurts. It's not because she  _knows_  that friends with benefits don't linger like that. It's not because she  _knows_  that Brittany hates waking up alone. It's not even because she's pretty damn sure that Brittany actually means it when she says I love you during their heated moments of passion.

It hurts because Santana thinks she wants to love back. She wants to tell Brittany everything about the Family and not have to worry about which enemy may target the girl  _just_  because she's Santana's and Santana's hers. She wants to let Brittany come to her house whenever they want, because they should be allowed to do that (even if they are just best friends). She wants to let Brittany know who she really is, because even though Brittany has always somehow managed to look beyond the incredible walls she created for herself and detect bits of the  _real_  her, Santana can never be sure the girl Brittany's in love with, is actually her.

But until someone – maybe her, maybe Brittany – finds a way to get them out of this shit, Santana thinks she owes Brittany enough to at least protect her.

So she puts on her clothes, pens down a note and expertly climbs out of the window.

Santana Lopez isn't a person to apologise. But somehow, she seems to say it a hell a lot to Brittany.

* * *

Santana pulls off her headphones in frustration and throws them across the table, yelling as her character gets shot twice in the back. She had been too preoccupied with the corner behind the tower on the right, the one she was so sure Mike would be ready to ambush her at, when Sam shot her from the back like some kind of fucking ninja.

"Fuck," Santana spits out and rolls her chair back, flopping back onto the bed. It's one thing to lose the game and under normal circumstances, she wouldn't be half as aggrieved, except she has lost nearly every game so far and it's not exactly her fault that Puck is so damn lousy. You'd expect someone who has memorised every stage of Super Mario to be at least mildly good at most video games. Plus Puck can actually take an actual semi-automatic gun apart and put it back together in record time, so Santana naturally thought he'd be good at Call of Duty.

Well, she might as well had been playing solo for the last forty minutes.

Santana hears Sam mutter "good game" before she feels his weight sink beside her on the bed, a bowl of nachos in his hand. Her eyes are closed and if she'd be wallowing in her own embarrassment if she wasn't still stuck in rage. The game was supposed to help her de-stress but instead, she's left listening to the enthusiastic crunch of nachos while worrying about the recent A- she got on the last essay. That, plus Brittany, the Fabrays, Quinn and whatever the hell it'll take to get her judo jazz back.

A single nacho hits Santana's face and she opens her eyes weakly. She tells herself to let it go, mostly because Sam is super dorky and he somehow manages to make her feel like her inner geek is adorable, not ridiculous. The fact that he doesn't ask questions about her personal life is probably the only other reason why their friendship still stays pretty healthy.

"So, I heard about your Starbucks intervention."

"Nothing I do goes unnoticed." Santana rolls her eyes and laughs a little as she lets him throw a nacho into her waiting mouth, the saltiness and crunch reminiscent of every other gaming expedition they've survived. "And I heard about the stunt you pulled with the abs. Lost your way to the shower, really?"

"She totally noticed me."

"Well, you decided to talk in Na'vi!" Santana shoots back, laughing. She props herself on one arm and picks up nachos herself, poking unceremoniously into the dip and chomping on them even though she knows she'll have to run at least two more rounds at training to make herself feel a little better. Six if she wants to burn the calories off.

"Just because I occasionally indulge in your blue alien Avatar shit doesn't mean every girl will, Sam."

"Well, I'm going to ask her out tomorrow, after the game, since she always comes to pick Finn up." Sam finishes the sentence and there's a salsa stain at the top left of his wide grin, which almost makes Santana guilty when she shrugs and replies, aiming for nonchalance.

"We're going out on Friday."

Sam's expression drops and for just a brief moment, the guilt actually hits Santana when she thinks that Sam might actually be  _into_  Quinn Fabray. Because Sam's one of the sweetest guys Santana knows and if only because he's the best gaming mate ever, she doesn't want to be in the way of a good romance. But then Santana remembers how Sam doesn't actually  _know_ Quinn Fabray (not that she's pretending she does) and precisely because she's a good bro, she hardens her expression and deploys her poker face.

"The girl's totally into me. Don't think she plays for your team, Trouty Mouth."

Sam quickly changes the topic of the conversation and Santana's briefly relieved. The last thing she needs is for Sam to fall for the girl of a fucking Russian mob when the only way he knows to get rid of guys after him is to throw a ball across the grass pitch, and Santana's pretty sure that's not going to help if the Fabrays decide to send hitmen after him. The worst part? Sam's not going to be the kind to move on, even with a bullet in his shoulder, if he actually falls in love with Quinn. So Santana manages to convince herself that fifty's a pretty cheap price for her elaborate efforts to keep him safe.

Because there are only so many people who can separate flirting and feelings, and if there's only one thing she has learnt from her complicated as fuck relationship with Brittany, it's that Santana Lopez is a maestro at compartmentalising.

* * *

There are many reasons why Santana picks that Friday. For one, she knows the girls always dig it when she executes a perfect throw and there's just something about something about people in sports gear, the same way there's just something about people in uniform.

Santana doesn't let the flash of blonde hair distract her from the bout and instead pounces forward with even greater determination, weighing her options. Certainty or flamboyance? Put like that, suddenly the decision seems simple. Santana shuffles forward, her grip on her opponent firm as she throws her weight backward, her legs kicking his belt unceremoniously, pulling their shoulders close. She lands gently on the  _dojo_ , her back rolling on the surface as her opponent's thrown backward over her body and with that  _ippon_ , the bout ends.

You can't say flamboyance in judo better than a  _tomoe nage_.

She laments momentarily that Mike isn't around to fall perfectly and make that resounding hit as he breaks fall, but she tells herself the green belt's performance, whatever his name is, suffices. Plus, Mike's absence is partly why she picked Friday too, because Mike and Brittany have a dance convention to attend over the weekend and while it isn't like she's dating Brittany or anything, her brain naturally classified Brittany's absence as some kind of plus point for Friday, whatever that's supposed to mean.

Santana swiftly dismisses the class, a mixture of coloured belts and whites compared to her second  _dan_. Usually she and Mike conduct the session, except for the occasional times they manage to invite experts from Japan, Brazil and the like to host seminars. It's the way the university works and frankly, Santana doesn't care. It works better because it takes a hell of a lot to earn her respect and Santana already has a  _sensei_  back in Colombia.

Santana strips off her gi and takes a quick shower. Quinn has obviously come early to watch her train and while Santana's not half-guilty for making her wait in those circumstances, it's pretty ungentlemanly. So when she walks out, fresh from the shower and her gi slung over one shoulder, Santana smirks a little before offering her arm to Quinn.

Hudson's visibly taken aback when he sees Puckerman following and Santana frowns at his lack of knowledge of how they work. It's not in the Fabrays' style to employ a greenhorn and since he obviously doesn't share their surname, Santana makes a mental note to dig out his story. Because an anomaly like that is always worth studying.

Quinn's unusually quiet and Santana doesn't ask why, until she's got them both past Rutherford's men and ushered into her house, because she thinks there'll at least be peace there. Friday's the one day when her parents go out shopping – yes, the regular civilian kind – and have a nice dinner before heading back for what may or may not be a peaceful weekend. But when Santana opens the door, she's bombarded by the sounds of her mother screaming at the help and she winces immediately.

"Ma?"

Gloria turns around and smiles widely at both of them, before storming over in her tight dress and killer heels. Sometimes Santana thinks that her mother gets hit on more than she does, which despite her mother's hotness, is embarrassing.

"Came alone, Quinn? I thought they'd have more guys–"

"Hudson's waiting outside with Puckerman." Santana interrupts and frowns a little at how plainly her mother puts everything. But then again, it's this exact quality that gave her the opportunity to invite Quinn over. Because all Gloria does is to nod briefly and smiles a little at the reassurance, not caring to hide their somewhat tricky circumstances. It's the way Gloria trusts Santana to make decisions worthy of their last name and responsible towards the Family.

"Thank you for having me over, Mrs. Lopez." Quinn finally speaks and when Santana looks over, there's a light blush highlighting Quinn's perfect complexion that makes her heart jump in ways it shouldn't.

"Oh, I'm Gloria Lopez, that's my surname. Santana takes my name for her grandpa's sake, but she loves her papa too doesn't she?" Santana nods briefly and watches as her mother excuses herself, bag in her hand as she rushes to meet her father at whichever fancy restaurant they've chosen this time.

Above everything, she's actually thankful that her father isn't the one around: unlike her mother, he'll make a big fuss out of it. He'll get all defensive of her mother, explaining why even though Santana's a Lopez she's as much his kid and how her mother only hid the whole pregnancy drama from him so he could become Dr. Delgado without worrying about mob influences in the middle of medical school. Sometimes Santana wonders whether he does it to validate himself or to validate their family, but either way, she knows he's been a great father.

She doesn't care that he missed her first day at pre-school – there are kids who have both parents but neither turn up anyway – and she doesn't care that it always takes a little bit of explaining, because frankly, she thinks her mother made a great call. And her father has always been there for her when it mattered – when she first had her heart broken, when she came out, when she won her first medal. So as proud as she is of being a Lopez, she's equally proud to be half Delgado and more importantly, her parents' only child.

Which is more than she can say of the Fabrays, from what she had gathered: the Fabrays always came across as a perfect (otherwise known as completely whacked out) family. Like the way they handled business, they were cold, and from what Santana heard, completely rigid all the time. Case in point: Quinn's sister had her husband chosen for her, and he took her fucking surname after that. Well, it'd be quite a waste if Quinn ever had the same done to her.

You know, not that Santana should care.

Handing Quinn her cup of Colombian coffee as Santana sips happily at hers, she watched as a little smile starts to spread across Quinn's face while she nods in a way that assures Santana that Quinn won't be having the run-off-the-mill crap for a long time after. Her face is pretty in a way that Santana finds difficulty describing, but mostly she's impressed by the way Quinn takes the effort to gently breathe in the coffee aroma and chooses to taste the original before deciding whether milk or sugar is necessary.

She's beyond impressed when Quinn adds only just a little of each and Santana can swear that she has only seen natives enjoy coffee the way Quinn does.

"You're staring," Quinn's voice breaks the silence as it always does and yet again, manages to startle Santana just a little.

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"I'm looking at the coffee."

"The one  _you_ made me?" Quinn pauses, and they look at each for just a bare second before they both start laughing. "I knew about your bet with the blonde boy, by the way. What's his name, Sam?"

"What?"

"Noah told Rachel, who told me."

"Fuck," Santana swears and slams the cup on the table, the coffee sloshing dangerously in her cup, threatening to overflow with the impact. She can swear that Puck did it on purpose, to keep Santana away from Quinn, but obviously he hadn't counted on Quinn saying yes anyway.

 _Wait, she said yes anyway._  Santana's brain jumps at that realisation and a bright, almost goofy smile spreads across her face for just a moment before Santana hides it again with a careful frown of her eyebrows. She's sure Quinn picked it up though, because somehow when she looks up, Quinn stares at her in the eyes and speaks so softly, she thinks there's no way the girl's a Fabray.

"You look pretty like that, you know, when you're smiling without hiding anything."

Santana eyes Quinn silently, knowing that anything she says will only reveal how Quinn has once again managed to blindside her. And then, before she's figured out what's happening, Quinn's standing up again with that flowery dress twirling beautifully as she turns. Santana watches as Quinn finishes her coffee and then silently makes her way to the door, until the girl's almost out of the door before the word croaks out of her throat.

"Wait."

_Smooth, Lopez, smooth._

"You're buying me dinner with that fifty you won. Next Wednesday, I'll meet you at your car after my lecture."

Santana watches as Quinn just conjures up her beautiful smile once more and then disappears around the corner, that annoyingly attractive confidence in her step. And for just a moment, Santana think she might be afraid.

She's afraid because in some inexplicable way, Quinn Fabray always manages to surprise her. And with each remark she makes, Santana thinks there's no one else who knows her half as well. It's been ages since anyone except Brittany has even considered the possibility that Santana – the real one – is hiding. It's been even longer since anyone's seen that girl and god knows how long since anyone approved of that particular shade of her. Yet, Quinn says it like it's the simplest thing in the world and that fucking scares her.

It scares her because suddenly, Santana's not quite so sure of herself anymore.


	2. And You Feel Like Falling Down

It's surprising how they evo– got to this point (she'd use the word  _evolved_  except that would imply some kind of improvement and right now she's not sure about that) where somehow Quinn's creeped onto her phone's "favourites" list and it's actually kind of scary and comforting at the same time when she presses the number 7 and  _Q_  pops up as the first name.

Sometimes Santana wonders if the phone's smart enough to not only consider the number of messages and calls between them but the nature of those exchanges as well: because somehow they do this curious tango where they can say so much with incredibly few words. Like when Quinn just texts her "coffee" and Santana knows that they'll be spending the afternoon in her kitchen, their legs tangled together under the table as they go through their respective readings. Santana will groan at the length of her cases, complaining that none of this  _justice_ shit really matters all that much anyway – and Quinn will silently lean over and draw an upside-down smiley that she'll have to explain to her law professor the next day.

Brittany's still number one, though, because the fact that she and Quinn are doing this  _thing_  doesn't mean that the quality of her time with Brittany drops in any way, although Santana has seriously re-evaluated the meaning of quality. And that's the reason why Santana's been trying to keep Brittany away from her bed, for as long as she can anyway, and instead tries to have them watch Sweet Valley High but that doesn't always go well. Because one moment they'll be innocently eating popcorn and the next, Brittany will have her fingers toying at the hem of her shorts, begging to go further.

It used to make Santana feel happy in a way that integrated her physical and emotional selves, but recently it's just made her stomach tie in knots and beg for more: for things she never knew she wanted, for things she finds her life rearranging for, for things she never thought she'd get.

It's a desire that puts a strain on their, uh,  _relationship_  more than Santana's almost obsessive drive to keep Brittany safe. It's a desire that makes the simplest gestures look like glitter and the ones she used to love look dull. It's a desire that enunciates itself in every little choice Santana makes.

Like that time when Quinn has crumbs on the corner of her mouth from eating earl grey tea cookies and Santana just instinctively leans across the table to swipe them off with her fingers. She could have just pointed them out to Quinn, but instead she's tracing lines on Quinn's jaw and when Quinn grabs at her fingers and gently laces them together, she doesn't jerk away.

Instead, Santana lets Quinn pull her in closer and then with both of them hovering awkwardly over that table, Santana lets Quinn press her lips gently to hers. Santana lets herself kiss back, fingers tangling assuredly with Quinn's as her eyelids flutter shut from its simplicity and how amazing it feels.

Santana lets herself wonder, just for a moment,  _how_  and  _why_  and  _can I actually do this_  as she smiles against Quinn's lips.

* * *

Mike and Santana lay side by side, their  _gis_  barely touching, on the  _dojo_. Santana tries to steady her breath, the feeling of adrenaline still gushing through her blood, telling her she still has a bit in her for one more bout.

She could easily ask for Mike for another, but today she stays down and stares at the ceiling lights with him. It's not in her character to exploit people at their weakest, okay usually it is – but she respects Mike Chang too much as a person and a sportsman to even entertain this thought. All through the session, Mike's been awfully distracted. Usually he's all kinds of professional once he dons the  _gi_ and tightens his belt but this time he falls for Santana's first bluff and lands on the mat with a textbook  _ippon seoinage_.

If Santana wasn't so worried about him, she'd tease him about that fall for days. It isn't even her speciality throw.

So when his voice finally breaks the silence, Santana's well-prepared for it and doesn't throw back a snarky remark immediately. Instead, she tells herself to listen and it pays off.

"I was wondering if it was okay for me to ask Brittany out?"

Mike completes the sentence in one breath, the words a sudden flurry of what Santana reads as nervousness, guilt and hope embroiled all into one. The first thing she notices is the fact that Mike has never used that tone of voice with her (it's usually reserved for his demanding, controlling mob boss of a father). The second thing she notices is the utter silence and in relation, the third – the fact that she has no real answer for it. So Santana deploys the one trick she mastered from years of watching her grandfather speak: she sends a question back to deflect the first.

"Why do you ask me?"

Mike's answer comes back faster than she expects as he turns his head to face her instead of the ceiling. The earnest in his voice disarms her immediately.

"Because we're friends and she was kind of your girl, no?"

Santana asks herself when Brittany became  _her girl_. Sure, they've slept together a couple of times, she has climbed through Brittany's window so many times she can tell you the number of bricks on her window ledge and even though they study different courses, they spend an awful amount of time together. But Santana never let Brittany know the entire truth about her family business, she never formalised their relationship, she never whispered those three words. Even if there were times she meant to.

_And if Brittany was once her girl, what made it a thing of the past?_

But the questions are far too hard to answer and Santana has never been the kind to actually deal with them. So instead, she tries to wean the thought out of her mind and replies with a firmness that cracks at the edges with fear.

"I'm cool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Let's have one last bout before I head back."

This time when Mike throws her to the ground with a beautifully performed  _harai goshi_ , Santana can't help but wonder if it's because his problems have been solved or whether she's the one now distracted.

It's another question Santana shoves to the back of her mind.

* * *

Santana knows that it's bad timing from the way Mack glares for most of her visit, her eyes turning gentle only for a moment as the doctor explains the injury to everyone squeezed into the hospital suite (yes, that happens when your real family's huge and your Family's even larger). Santana doesn't even have to stay over, it's just a dislocated elbow and a hairline fracture: with some fucking painful manipulation and an ugly like hell sling, she can go home. The doctor says she should come back for a MRI and some rehabilitation, and Santana nearly says  _fuck you_  when she remembers her father actually treats this egotistic man-child as his friend.

So she quickly crawls into her father's car and silently accepts her mother's kiss on the cheek, feeling bad for the guilt in her mother's eyes. She thinks there's a big deal going through today, because Mack's hair is tied up in a tight ponytail like she spent all morning trying to ease out all the bumps and she keeps sharing knowing looks with her mother like Santana's untimely injury has messed it up for everyone.

Santana wants to get angry with Mack, she does. Santana didn't exactly  _ask_  to fall oddly and get injured. It isn't really within her control that she has been distracted as of late and when she wanted to call Quinn, Puck stopped her like she was some kind of idiot and immediately called Mack. Santana didn't need to be babied and she sure as hell didn't think Quinn would make use of her injury to kidnap her or whatever (they were kind of past that stage). So Santana wants to get angry but she can't, because she gets it. Mack may be an annoying bitch, but she's also  _her_  over-protective bitch, and when Mack discretely passes her a small pack of what she thinks might be cocaine, Santana thinks there's a rare shade of worry behind those dark eyes.

It feels odd that she's at home at all, because Santana usually manages to arrange her schedule so that she always avoids those days like  _this_. So she concentrates on pushing those thoughts away, but not long after she lets her father tuck her to bed, the thoughts come flooding back.

Santana tries not to think about how her mother is in a safehouse, orchestrating some kind of drug deal from a place whose only real safety is distance from the crime scene. Santana tries not to think about how Mack is right there, handling the cash that feeds her, selling the drugs that cripples others. Santana tries not to think about how, one day, she'll be the one pulling those puppet strings and manipulating others' lives from afar like she doesn't have conscience, when really she does.

Or at least she hopes so, because it's almost impossible for Santana to reconcile the possibility that her mother, or Mack or any of the guys she's seen them work with, are so messed up.

Because Santana can't help but feel like they're better than her.

She uses the last of the afternoon sun to send Quinn a message before collapsing onto her bed and falling asleep.

"I'm broken." Then as an afterthought, she adds. "It's the elbow."

Santana thinks that, somehow, Quinn will pick up the underlying significance of her words. And in some curious way, she will actually understand exactly how it feels.

* * *

Her eyes snap open at the sound of the door hinge and her right arm immediately darts out. Santana pulls out her knife from the side of the bed as she hears the door creak open. Her left arm still fucking hurts, but she gets her body up and pulls her arm back for a throw with her right. She's all prepared to hit the person that opens that door, but Santana stops herself just in time when she hears that voice.

"San?"

Brittany's large blue eyes gaze in from behind the door and she sneaks in, closing the door behind her. Santana sighs and swiftly hides her knife, instinctively moving to the right side of the bed for Brittany to snuggle in. It isn't until Brittany's hair is tickling Santana's face and her nimble fingers are playing with the hem of her shorts does she realise they shouldn't be doing this anymore.

Brittany shouldn't be sneaking into her room in the middle of the night; Santana shouldn't be making space for her in her bed and fuck, they shouldn't be so damn close when Santana's only in a bra and shorts.

It's not her fault, okay? Her elbow still hurts and when she fell asleep she forgot to turn on the air-conditioner, so it was her instinct – not her – that threw the shirt over to the other side of the room. How was she supposed to guess that her father was going to go to work after all and call Brittany? Well, maybe she could have, but she just didn't think of it and not having a shirt on has never been a problem for Santana Lopez.

At least until now, where Santana just lays there, staring at her ceiling, desperately wishing she has at least two shirts on. Santana thinks that, just like that, she's going to do something that lets Mike down, something that to a certain extent, lets Brittany down. Maybe even let herself down.

But then Brittany's chirpy voice breaks the silence as her slender fingers move to gently touch Santana's left elbow, completely unfazed by the blatant lack of clothing.

"Mike told me you hurt your elbow. Are you feeling better now, S?"

Santana winces slightly at the touch and she knows it's partly because of the pain and partly because of the fact that ever since Mike and Brittany sort of "went out", Santana has been on this self-induced torture process of refraining from any kind of improper conduct with Brittany. And partly because she knows Brittany far too well, she knows that all seemingly innocent cuddling activities are also ruled out – even if they start out completely harmless, Santana knows that they will only end up naked, panting and flushed against each other.

And it's one situation that Santana desperately wants to avoid. So she pulls her elbow in and tucks the covers up to her chin, smiling weakly as she replies.

"It'll be fine. I'm sure the swelling will go down soon and in no time, since I have fantastic recovery abilities."

Santana sees a bright smile spread over Brittany's face and for a moment she think she succeeds, but then Brittany whispers conspiratorially "get well kiss" and then leans in closer to kiss Santana's arm lightly.

"It's alright–"

Oh.

Because Santana can feel those lips on hers, pressing gently and when she opens her eyes, she stares straight into Brittany's blue eyes. Those eyes that now spark a playful quality that Santana immediately recognises. Because before this, before Mike, before Quinn, Brittany always used to come take care of Santana every time she got hurt. In fact, it was the only time the Lopez family let Brittany into the estate (much thanks to her soft-hearted father) and it didn't matter what injury it was, because Brittany only had one way of treating it and Santana was always eager to oblige.

Santana was, but now with Brittany lying above her, her lips placing light, fluttering kisses on her neck and behind her ear, those slender fingers drawing little circles at her side, Santana's not so sure anymore.

It takes all the effort Santana has to croak out the word "no" and Brittany freezes completely, moving to match Santana's remorseful eyes with her perplexed ones. Santana's body urges her to just pull Brittany down with her good arm and continue with whatever's happening, but instead a string of words laced with guilt escapes her lips.

"Britt, we can't do this anymore."

There's barely a moment when sadness washes across Brittany's face and Santana finds herself biting the inside of her left cheek just as Brittany collapses beside her and pulls away quietly. Santana thinks for just a moment that she has escaped the worst of it, but then Brittany's voice brings her back to reality.

"Does she make you happy?"

"Yes." It surprises her how fast the answer comes and neither of them even tries to deny who they're talking about.

"More than me?"

It's just three simple words, but Santana thinks Brittany has never put her in such a spot before. While they were together, if you can call it that, Brittany never pressed her to say those magical three words, never pressed her for actual recognition. They just worked, so when Santana eventually replies, she feels like a complete jerk: a jerk for not giving her a definite answer.

"Different. The two of you... are different."

Santana imagines Brittany takes merely a moment to absorb what she just said and this is one of those brief moments in their relationship when Santana knows Brittany will see the situation better than her, in the whole grand scheme of things. It's just something that the girl has been awfully talented at and sometimes, Santana wonders if her evasiveness hurts her more than it helps her.

"Okay."

The answer sends relief straight through Santana's spine, momentarily numbing the throbbing pain in her elbow.

"But we can still cuddle right, San?"

Santana nods lightly and shifts closer, pulling the covers over both of them. She can feel Brittany tenderly rubbing her elbow and just like that, Santana lets slip those words.

"You're my best friend, Britt. I still love you."

The pain in her elbow counts for nothing compared to the one in her heart when she feels Brittany's nod against her collarbone and those tears on her skin betraying the silent sobs of the girl in her arms.

It's a pain she thinks she'll never forget.

And when Santana wakes up the next morning to see that Brittany has gone, with a roughly scribbled apology on her notepad, the bumps on the paper telling her that they were once stained by tears, Santana throws the post-it into her drawer, willing herself to think that it doesn't exist.

It works all very well for about twenty seconds, when she finds herself wondering whether Brittany has a drawer full of post-its signed off in her name.

It's a thought that haunts her, until she hears her mother's weary voice call for her, and Santana quickly puts on a shirt before heading for the door. She spots the green light blinking on her phone, telling her there are messages waiting for her to read, but somehow, Santana instinctively moves away. She breathes out loudly, pulls her eyes away from the light and locks the door firmly behind her as her heavy steps resonate through the wood and down the stairs.

* * *

It's hard at first. Santana tries to spend more time at school, instead of at home, because it's odd to go home and not see Mack eating guacamole out of her favourite black ceramic bowl, discussing numbers and locations with her mother. It's odd not to hear Mack's voice, reminding her that Fabrays are  _born_  dangerous and then watch as Mack stifles her laughter every time she sees the shock on Quinn's face when their eyes meet. It's odd not knowing Mack will be there to have her back.

Because for once, Mack's too busy to protect anyone else and part of Santana blames herself for it.

Everyone is lying low, as NYPD celebrates their largest drug bust in  _what is it_  ten years and Mack runs. Or at least Santana imagines that Mack is running and hopefully, they'll find a way to bring her back to Mexico, maybe even Colombia, if their contacts are powerful enough. If not, Santana hopes that at the very least, Mack makes it to California, where she thinks that the crazy dictator Sylvester who somehow respects her grandfather, will hide her.

Because all over the news is the annoying face of a detective Schuester who claims credit for the bust like it was all his and as brash as Santana is, she knows it's a fucking bad move that will piss off all his colleagues and he's probably giving some really serious sexual favours to have balls like that. Or he has not a bit of brains to match that ego.

Except that's not really the problem, because Santana hears the newscaster repeat a description that sounds scarily like Mack to her and then it cuts to a small section where they talk about tightened border security and increased technology use, a fluff report that sounds a hell lot like propaganda to her. But she knows this worries her mother almost as much as protecting Mack does. Because it doesn't matter what is actually going on: it's going to piss off a hell lot of powerful people across the state, perhaps more, if they think that the government is as little as  _thinking_  of increasing border security. And that group of potentially angry people include the Fabrays who Santana hears, has had their guts shaken so much, they've called Quinn's sister and her husband out from Russia.

Except it shouldn't bother her at all, because Santana's fucking in college, she shouldn't have to worry about all this and truth be told, she doesn't want to. But Santana can't help but feel like she's somehow intrinsically wound up in the mess and she keeps getting distracted by it.

It's why she sits by the sides, watching Mike train the rest – almost jealously – when her arm has healed enough for her to at least start physical conditioning, even if she can't spar. It's why she misses the first wave Brittany sends in her direction, before Brittany quietly walks behind Mike and waits till they leave the room – thinking, falsely, that Santana can't see them anymore – before looping her arm around Mike's and smiles. It's why she doesn't realise that anyone is laying beside her, until she feels Quinn's warmth beside her body and her heart unsurprisingly skips a beat.

"San," Quinn says quietly and Santana can feel the edge of Quinn's dress brushing against her thigh as she breathes quietly, not knowing how to reply. Part of her feels like she should answer as naturally as possible, hide all her fears, because that's what she's trained to do and every time she breaks out of that training, she seems to let her family down. So perhaps, she should send over a snarky remark about how the  _dojo_  is a sacred training ground and Quinn never ought to come on, even if she has kicked off her shoes.

But instead, Santana lets out a quiet whimper that sounds somewhere in between a cry and a really fucked up version of Quinn's name.

Quietly, Quinn shuffles closer and laces their fingers together, her thumb rubbing small circles on the back of her hand in a way that's surprisingly soothing, as Santana closes her eyes and, for a moment, tries to stop thinking.

"It's alright."

There's a pause and Santana used to think this was cliché and fucking impossible, but right then she feels like  _just_  having Quinn there, gives her strength. It gives her the strength to stop blaming herself, to stop looking back, to stop worrying.

"You have me."

Maybe it's possible after all.

* * *

Puck does his work more thoroughly than before and even though it's been at least two weeks since the fai–  _incident_ , everyone is still on high alert and somehow, Puck stops cutting her the slack. She finds reports on Frannie Fabray, a cold, calculating woman with a talent in languages, and her foil of a husband whose over-emotional, disproportionately enthusiastic approach must, Santana thinks, embody the meaning of 'too many cooks spoil the broth'. But the ex-military man is not without his talents and for one, he owns his own chain of global delivery stores, which is the perfect cover to expand the Fabray's weapon smuggling operations: operations that have no doubt been disrupted by the  _incident_.

Santana also receives a long overdue report about Finn's backstory and if it weren't for the additional glares she'd been getting from him recently, she'd actually pity him. Not everyone asks to be signed up for such messy business and Santana thinks it's actually remotely possible that Finn has no fucking idea at all. In fact, she's pretty sure that when someone's father dies fighting in a war and their good friend promises to 'take care' of his son, no one ever thinks that means a direct entry into the mafia business. It kind of explains why Quinn never wants to talk much in front of Finn and why he's pretty much a dork sometimes, but right now, Santana just files away the information and concentrates on throwing knives.

It's funny, actually, how she used to do that with Mack and now, there's Quinn sitting on her bed, watching her as she pulls her arm back carefully and flicks her wrist forward, throwing the knife towards the thick corkboard that covers one wall of her room.

She smiles when the knife lands firmly with the sharp edge lodged against the corkboard and turns to see Quinn, a look of what she thinks is amazement painted over her face. So much time together and still, Santana never fails to be taken aback by the complexities of Quinn's face, how those emotions can meld so perfectly and yet be hidden away just as fast.

"Come over here."

Santana knows it's a bad idea, because knife-throwing is definitely a Lopez thing and it's really not something you fuck around with: Santana has the scars to prove it, particularly from that time when she was horseplaying and Mack's knife ended up wedged in her thigh. But when Quinn stands in front of her hesitantly, Santana naturally reaches to the right and pulls out a small knife with a classic grip and places it in Quinn's hand.

She has to tiptoe just a little, but she matches Quinn's height and cups Quinn's right hand with hers, whispering seriously.

"Feel the knife, hold it firmly, its weight against the base of your palm."

Santana feels Quinn nod quietly and with their bodies pressed together, Santana wraps their fingers around the knife in the correct grip and pulls Quinn's shoulder back, steadying it a little, feeling their bodies mould into one another.

It's funny, because Mack taught Santana how to throw knives in exactly the same manner, but somehow Santana never remembered being able to hear Mack's breath, or feel her heart beating against Mack's body.

"Sink your shoulder and steady it, then let the knife go lightly, let it fly out of your hand. Don't worry."

The knife flies out of Quinn's hand and a smile spreads over her face when she sees it land nicely against the surface, although it does drop out a moment later, from the lack of strength employed.

"You're a weakling, Fabray," Santana laughs, but it's a little insulting and a lot affectionate.

Quinn twirls around and their noses bump together as Quinn's blonde locks mix tangle with Santana's and she snipes back.

"I'm a natural."

Santana snorts and because of their close proximity, Santana can swear that she can feel Quinn's breath against her face and it's just–  _it's fucking hot_.

"Only a Lopez can be a natural at knife-throwing, girl. Our hands were made to hold them."

Santana nearly pulls out of the embrace as she tries to point out the collection of knives she has, but Quinn only pulls her closer, their lips now almost touching.

"Maybe I am," Quinn says and there's that confidence again: the one that first irked her and yet the same one that drew her to the mystery of a girl standing in front of her.

"What?"

"A Lopez."

Santana's heart trips over the implications of Quinn's simple reply but at least Quinn doesn't expect a composed answer, because Quinn just leans in and kisses her again and all Santana can think of is to kiss back.

When they finally pull apart to catch their breath and Santana can taste Quinn's raspberry lip-balm on her own lips, Santana pants out breathily.

"You still have to learn how to throw with your other hand."

Quinn laughs at that and then wraps her arms around Santana's waist as she asks happily, "why? I'm right-handed."

"Because we never throw with our dominant hand; it's too restrictive and incriminating."

"Well then, we'll just have to practise more, won't we?"

They don't leave Santana's room and for those precious hours, Santana stops thinking about those files at the corner of her desk.

But then when she wakes up in the middle of the night and there's a thin file slipped under her door, Santana peels herself from the warmth of Quinn's body and picks it up tenderly.

There's barely a page and a half of text, followed by a post-it in Puck's handwriting apologising, with no further explanation. Santana reads it carefully and the first time, she feels nothing. But the second time she goes through those words, the same moon light that illuminates the text illuminating Quinn's beautiful face, Santana feels like throwing up.

"QUINN FABRAY is a Year Two student at Columbia University, majoring in journalism and photography. Her father RUSSELL FABRAY chose her course, because he also controls major media companies in Eastern Europe and plans on having her inherit his media empire. Particularly, he controls The Moscow Times, Nezavisimaya Gazeta and NTV, amongst other smaller holdings. Of all the Fabray figures ..."

Santana chokes and swiftly closes the file, placing it on the table and then throws her Contract Law textbook over it. She crawls back into her bed and hugs Quinn tightly from behind as she shakes her head instinctively.

 _No_.

Because Santana knows that Quinn loves to write. She loves writing dark pieces because she says it's a throwback to her heritage and sometimes she lets herself write fluff pieces because it reminds her of the happy in the world. She takes photographs because it's – in her own words – like capturing perfection and god knows how hard that is to grasp on to.

And Santana doesn't want to think that the girl in her bed right now, in all her glory, can be reduced to a page and a half of text. And fuck timing, because just when she has managed to stop, the file comes along and worry builds up in her chest all over again.

Santana doesn't know whether she's worrying because Puck knows so little about Quinn, which means the Fabrays are doing something right with hiding their jewel, or whether she's worrying because that might actually be  _it_. That one and half page might be all the weaponry Quinn has, to defend herself if anything happens and Santana just can't deal with that.

And for a moment, Santana doesn't want to be a Lopez anymore.

_No, that's not right._

Santana doesn't want Quinn to be a Fabray anymore.

* * *

She hears that Quinn has met Brittany. Not just another bump along the corridor, but seriously a meeting where apparently some arguing and a  _resounding_  slap occurred. It's disturbing that information comes to her in a convoluted collection of words, but then Puck comes along and tells her reassuringly that Rachel knows Quinn is fine, then Mike messages her to say that Brittany is okay and all Santana can think about is how fucking messed up it is that Santana doesn't know shit about what happened.

And since the two of them refuse to talk about it and they're both skilled enough with their makeup to hide any possible marks they've had from the meet, Santana takes Sam's advice and pretends she didn't hear anything. In fact, he's been dispensing pretty good advice so far and it's kind of awkward sometimes when she remembers that he actually wanted a piece of Quinn's sweet ass too. But then he watches her stumble over her words and just throws her his copy of Call of Duty, saying she can have it until she's free enough to crash his house again.

Santana accepts it gratefully, even though she knows that she probably won't have time to play it anyway, and makes sure to send him her Xbox 360 Wireless Racing Wheel, just because she can (and because he, of all people, deserves it).

Once, he said that sometimes girls want you to know everything and sometimes girls want you to know nothing.

Santana scoffed at his words and said she understood Na'vi better, but now, Santana thinks Sam makes a hell lot of sense.

So Santana doesn't ask anything when they walk past, on their regular route to her place, graffiti scribbled against the wall "watch out Lopez" and Puck says he'll  _take care of it_  but there's a look in Quinn's eyes like she knows that graffiti, like she recognises that handwriting or something.

Santana doesn't say anything when Quinn stays unusually quiet through the course of their regular Netflix movie marathon, with sappy classics from probably the Stone Age, or when Quinn reaches for the bottle of Grey Goose on Santana's shelf and just drinks it neat, passing it to Santana without a word.

Santana doesn't even say anything when Quinn doesn't get all angry from the alcohol and instead of yelling at her or at inanimate objects, Quinn just throws herself at Santana and apologises repeatedly against Santana's collarbone.

Because Santana thinks she knows exactly what Quinn is going through and sadly, neither of them can avoid it. Usually, that frustrates Santana and makes her want to run, but this time she just pulls Quinn closer and stops her tears from escaping. Because this time, Santana thinks that they have enough strength built up between them two to fight this and maybe, just maybe,  _win_.

So she kisses Quinn's forehead and mumbles unabashedly into the darkness.

"I love you."


	3. I'll Carry You Home, Tonight

Rumours are rife on the street and the boys prepare to hit the mattresses. Even her mother has decided that there are far too many threats for them all to be empty and boy, are the Fabrays known to carry out their threats. That's why Santana clings on to Quinn even tighter than before, as if giving parts of her to the girl will make sure that even if anything happens, they'll stick together. And it's not in Santana's style at all, not to just walk away and break another's heart, so that she can keep herself safe – in fact, as much as Santana will deny it, Santana  _knows_  that what she's doing will only make it hurt more later.

But she continues to do so, because for now, she doesn't have to  _choose_.

(She pretends that it won't kill her when she does.)

Santana can feel Quinn's breath tickle her behind her ear as her fingers trail across her body and gently caresses the small scar she has at her side.

"This?"

Quinn half-mutters and half-kisses the word into her neck and Santana feels the warmth of that gesture travel through her body. So she turns to meet Quinn's hazel eyes and there's just a small smile on her face when she replies smugly.

"Junior year,  _kyu_  grade final."

A small wince forms on Quinn's face and instinctively, Santana brings her fingers up to gently caress it off her face. She remembers the throw, an  _ogoshi_  that Santana managed to dodge, meriting her opponent a mere  _yuko_. But she landed awkwardly on her side, the sharp pain and its accompanying yelp convincing everyone that she earned herself a broken rib, but Santana told herself there was no way she was settling for silver. So she lunged forward and pulled with incredible, incredible, strength and next to no technique. The match was over with an  _ippon_  in no more than 30 seconds.

Santana smiles fondly at the memory and leans closer when she whispers, "still won though, I have the medal to prove it."

It's a story Santana loves recounting, somehow it's the perfect in-between of badassery and the hurt angle which always lands her the chicks, in the rare occasion her unbelievably hot body didn't already. But she knows that Quinn isn't half as impressed as those less-travelled bimbos because there's a sadness in those eyes as her fingers continue to make lazy patterns on Santana's skin.

Santana edges closer and runs her fingers tenderly through Quinn's blonde hair, their eyes locked. The moment is precious, and for once, Santana finds herself thinking some cheesy shit like wanting the moment to go on forever.

It's fucking ridiculous and it kind of feels like she's throwing all remnants of good logic out of the window.

Then Santana feels those fingers trail down even lower to touch another scar, low on her stomach, dangerously close to– well, nothing exactly in that situation. And then, that soft, yet firm, whisper once more.

"This?"

It takes all the effort for Santana to break eye contact and she nearly jerks away. There are injuries all over her body and most of them accompanied by scars but that particular one is incredibly light and nearly non-existent, with age. Few ever notice it and most of them are distracted enough to let it go when Santana tells them to just move on to her prized asset and "get on with it". But Brittany did, and even though it always caused a ridiculous amount of tension between them both, Santana always refused to tell. Because there was never a need to infect Brittany's bright, rainbow-coloured, unicorn-filled life with her dark, dark past and as of now, equally dark future. Because even if she could trust Brittany with all those secrets, she couldn't trust herself enough not to destroy that girl's life with the truth.

And with Quinn, it shouldn't be any different. Sure, the girl has a pretty badass heritage as well, but the two Families work differently and Santana knows that they are already breaking all kinds of spoken and unspoken boundaries which could really lead to a major screw-up. So Santana braces herself to say "no" and push Quinn away from her like everyone else, but Quinn pulls her in so close their foreheads knock against one another and all Santana can see is an earnest softness in those eyes.

"You can trust me," Quinn says slowly, like they're the easiest words in the world, when god knows how hard it was for them to ever reach that stage in the first place. But then Santana nods as she listens to her subconscious and answers quietly.

"Freshman year; I was barely out of the girl's toilet when their guys just jumped me and there was kind of a fight when they took me."

Santana winces uncontrollably at the memory and tries to focus on picking the right words instead of the images that flood her mind.

"It was back in Colombia, but Puck he somehow got to me and he brought me home."

Santana swallows hard and watches as Quinn's expression fills with hurt and questions but thank god, not pity. Even though Santana doesn't actually tell Quinn  _everything_  – that she was there for fifty hours, that there was a reason why the scar's there of all places, that Puck's dad died trying to get to her – it is still more than she has ever told anyone before. And maybe she isn't supposed to be pouring her fucking heart out to a Fabray (especially if both of them are naked) but somehow she has. Even the guilt can't take away the relief she feels in her heart, however small it is.

That little bit of relief is exponentially amplified by the fact that Quinn holds her close and presses a soft, light kiss on her lips, letting it linger in a way she never did before.

And then when they finally pull apart, before Santana can say anything, Quinn says firmly, "I trust you too."

Somehow in Santana's ears, the words ring over and over as  _I love you too_  and it sets off all the alarms in her system but she muffles them by burying her face in the crook of Quinn's neck and tangling her fingers in that lovely blonde hair.

Because even though her mind keeps warning her otherwise, there, in Quinn's warm embrace and her loving, non-judgemental gaze, Santana feels safer than she has for months.

* * *

They sit side by side in their light blue t-shirts, screaming "Go Lions!" at regular intervals between plays. Well, mostly it's Santana doing the screaming and it comes with its fair share of vulgarities, most of them directed at the other team, occasionally at their own players and once at the coach, when he brought on Finn Hudson. Quinn wasn't too interested in squeezing with the rest of the crowd for the game, but Santana convinced her that it was important, plus she made sure that Sam saved them good seats, so there they are, watching the game like a couple.

Like a couple.

Santana hears the words in her head in the middle of sipping their shared soda and she nearly spits out the drink, but then she turns to her left, sees Quinn, in a matching t-shirt (fine, half the crowd is wearing the same fucking shirt, but it makes her happy okay) and she smiles, a little stupidly. Santana's just about to lean closer to Quinn and whisper something naughty in her ear, like how the game isn't _that_  important and they really should visit the showers, when the crowd roars at a touchdown and Santana's distracted again. She joins the crowd in screaming, but not without making wriggly suggestive eyebrows at Quinn.

She also adds "the school showers" onto her mental list of Places to Persuade Quinn That Sex Will Be Awesome. Other places include an airplane suite, the car and sadly, her own showers. Santana hasn't been particularly successful when it comes to this, but she's working on it, alright? Quinn's not exactly Miss Adventurous where it comes to sex, or anything else.

The game ends with a win for the team and the whole crowd is celebrating with a guffawing cheer that gives Santana a headache, but she musters a smile as she pulls Quinn towards Sam and Puck, instead of Finn, immediately after the match. Puck eagerly pushes the crowd away, pulling Santana and Quinn into the safety of a locker room, before swiftly taking Santana into a hug.

It's disgusting, sweaty and Santana's sure, pretty much a turn-off for Quinn and she's about to whack Puck for denying her sweet lady kisses when he whispers quietly into her ear.

"Check your phone, I got a message from her. It said good game."

Santana pulls away and looks down on to hers, using their bodies to shield her phone from anyone else's gaze.

_I'm safe._

And then another message two minutes later.

_Protect yourself, break it off._

Santana's heart drops and she loses the smile she's been wearing for the last few days. It hurts, because she knows it's Mack and yet she desperately wants to believe it isn't. Mack may say a lot of things, she might shoot evil glares at Quinn when she visits, she might drop blatant hints about how it's dangerous, but Mack doesn't tell her what to do. In fact, Santana's pretty sure that secretly, Mack likes Quinn and more so, she likes the way Santana is around Quinn. And since that is the case, Mack's must only doing it to protect Santana because there'll almost definitely be trouble.

She glances over and sees that somehow Rachel Berry has found her way into the locker rooms, that Quinn is having a somewhat animated conversation with her about god knows what and Santana lets out a loud sigh that is hidden by the testosterone-boosted cheers of the boys.

"She's okay."

Santana half-lies and Puck smiles at her earnestly. She manages to slip in an awkward hug and sincere congratulations to Sam, before she pulls Quinn away towards her car and she drives them to her estate in silence. But she doesn't have them leave her garage. Instead, she drops her seat backward and reaches over to hold Quinn's hand, quietly.

She's thankful when Quinn doesn't ask her anything, because the last thing she wants to do is have a reason to talk, to have an excuse to break up, to let her go.

And it hurts even as Quinn just silently draws figures on the back of her hand, until Santana finally closes her eyelids from the fatigue, her fingers still grasped tightly onto Quinn's.

So when Quinn leans over to give her a gentle kiss on the cheek, thinking that she has fallen asleep, Santana wonders, for a moment, whether that could be the poetic end to their relationship.

But then Quinn whispers a confident "I love you" lightly against her skin and Santana falls in love with her all over again.

* * *

Quinn tangles her fingers with Santana's and pulls her assertively to a small field that adjoins one of the small buildings and sits them down, their legs outstretched in front of them, their feet side by side. Santana leans against Quinn's side, feeling their bodies against each other like it's the most natural thing in the world.

All she wants to do is enjoy the moment, but her instinct tells her something is wrong, and Santana doesn't want to know what.

"This is my safe place," Quinn starts, a small smile on her face as Santana nods in acknowledgement. She continues after a brief moment, her voice slightly stronger.

"And I wanted you to know it. You're the only one."

It's the way she says  _I trust you_.

Santana moves in closer and presses a light kiss on Quinn's cheek. They've never put a label on their relationship – neither of them interested in that kind of bullshit as long as they both know what it stands for – but this is a landmark, Santana reckons. They've created memories together, but for the longest time ever, Quinn's dexterously manoeuvred around exposing herself, around sharing her memories. Santana doesn't know why exactly Quinn does that, but she understands that she can't be the only one with a messy past, and Quinn deserves space if she needs it, even if her curiosity is killing her.

So her heart flutters just a little when she realises that she's the only one who knows Quinn's safe place.

But then her heart sinks steadily at the thought that Quinn needs her safe place again.

_I should be her safe place._

"What's wrong, Quinn?"

Quinn's body tenses up for just a moment, before she curls in closer and their legs intertwine in a way that has half of Quinn's body on top of Santana and her head rested against Santana's collarbone.

"Stay safe, Santana."

Her voice is weak and small again and it pains Santana because Quinn is clinging onto her in a way she never did before and their eyes don't meet.

"What's wrong, Quinn, what's wrong?"

"Just promise me," her voice trembles a little, " _promise_  me you'll stay alive."

There's a pause, and then this time a little colder, "we have to stop this."

Quinn peels herself away from Santana and immediately she misses the contact. It's this act (not the words) that blindsides Santana completely: Quinn has always been the more clingy of the pair and when Santana looks up, it's like she's lost her completely.

Because Quinn's rearranged her face into the sombre, unfeeling one Santana's seen in pictures before, but she has never seen it framed for her.

Hurt comes first, then anger later, but masterfully Santana pulls up all her walls and only conveys the second.

"What the fuck Quinn? Is this you telling me we're breaking up?"

Shock actually graces Quinn's face for a mere second and Santana just wants to know what the fuck Quinn is thinking because the girl can't be shocked that she's angry. Maybe she's shocked that Santana doesn't understand, well then  _fuck_ , make her understand.

"I'm not saying that, Santana." Quinn reaches forward, uncrossing her arms and trying to touch Santana, but the girl just jerks away. She still misses the contact, she just can't  _deal_  with what might happen if she  _lets_  her all over again.

"You're implying it."

"I'm not. And I'm going to walk away now." Quinn starts to walk away, her footsteps a little slower than usual, a little noisier than usual. Maybe she wants Santana to chase after her, but she doesn't say it and Santana's pride wills her to stay at her spot, only allowing her to scream madly after her, disrupting the serenity of the field.

"You don't fucking get to walk away from me, Fabray!"

It hurts them both when Quinn turns around, looks at her forlornly and sanguinely pronounces each word.

"You see? This is what happens. In this kind of situation, I'm no longer Quinn. I'm a Fabray." Santana swallows hard and holds back her tears, as Quinn tilts her head to one side, biting on her lower lip.

"And I lose my Santana. All I get in her place is a Lopez."

The words hit her hard and fast, and Santana doesn't waste any time in ditching her pride, because she runs up to Quinn and pulls her into her embrace, the grip firm around her waist. Nothing has happened yet, but obviously Quinn knows something will and Santana thinks that whatever it is, she can deal with it.

It can't be that bad right?

And whatever happens, the girl she fell in love with? It's Quinn.

Santana presses her lips gently to Quinn's and when Quinn kisses back, she feels a flood of relief through her body. She murmurs Quinn's name over and over and listens as Quinn whispers her name back, until they grow weary and it becomes a desperate mumble against each other's skin.

Quinn promises never to make decisions for the both of them again.

Santana promises never to use her last name against her.

Silently, they both promise never to bring up how, for just a moment, they actually believed that breaking up was the best thing to do, the  _right_  thing to do.

But neither of them promises forever.

* * *

Santana's ushered back from school at top speed and it immediately scares her how many cars are parked in the estate. Grim faces are painted on each and every member, their actions a desperate attempt to keep themselves busy and avoid eye contact with Santana.

She doesn't need to be a genius to realise that there's a Family crisis in question: they had a granduncle and about two other cars of men escort her home, skipping Puck entirely and the only time her granduncle Miquel didn't pick her up with his arms and give her a bear hug, her grandfather had been the one ruthlessly gunned down while on a regular visit to his favourite breakfast place.

Santana winces as she remembers crying in her mother's arms, that time three years ago – for days – completely uncaring as to the disparaging remarks made by her relatives, who "thought she'd have more backbone as a Lopez". That one time, her mother refused to cry at all and repeatedly defended Santana with the excuse that she was merely a child. It wasn't until days later, when her grandfather had been put to rest in the ground and Gloria Lopez finally took over operations on the ground, did Santana spot her mother crying, alone in her room.

Then, Santana couldn't even find the strength in herself to step forward and embrace her weeping mother.

It's a moment Santana's more disgraced of than any other moment in her life.

So this time, when she steps into her house and sees it filled with her relatives and an awful atmosphere of dread, she forbids herself from crying. Instead, she walks towards her mother and barely allows herself a moment of shock to see that tear-stained face. Her heart only drops when she picks out the words "your father" amongst her mother's muffled sobs and immediately disbelief hits her. Then, before she has time to even deal with that, the anger kicks in and all Santana can do is try and suppress them all. Because she can feel all their eyes trained on her, because she knows she has to be the strong one this time, because even she doesn't know what will happen if she lets go again.

So she looks up and meet Puck's worried gaze for only a moment before she clears her throat and speaks firmly.

"Thank you everyone for coming. Please make yourself comfortable in the empty houses of the estate. Rutherford here will assist you."

Santana waves him forward and she watches as her granduncles instruct the women and elderly in a brief period of disorder, before it's just her, her mother and the men of the Lopez family eyeing her next move.

"I want all relatives flown in and settled well before the funeral. There should be more than enough lodging within the estate, and we want to keep them here where we have home-ground advantage and top-notch security".

Santana eyes a look of approval from her granduncle Miquel's face and continues to speak, ridding her voice of all apprehension.

"Word will be out soon and I want it to come from us, not some low life bent on spreading gossip. Our boys need to know what happened and they can pay their respects, but business as usual."

There is a series of respectful nods and Santana pauses long enough to step closer to her mom and gently embrace her, the tears staining her shirt in an odd way that reminds her way too much of the last time.

"Also, no special deals, I want this  _thing_ ," Santana nearly chokes, "to be settled and then instructions will be sent out again. No one's to go on some kind of brainless revenge mission."

Santana feels her mother nod quietly against her stomach, body slumped over in a chair. And for once, it feels like she has done something right for the Family, even if the thought of the circumstances leading her to do so, just makes her feel like throwing up.

Santana only breaks physical contact with her mother when her granduncles step forward to shake her hand and nod politely, before going on with the instructions. And when granduncle Miquel comes up last, Santana thinks for a moment that he may just give her that bear hug she's sure she needs.

But instead, he grasps her hand firmly and shakes it, nodding his head as he says, "well done, Santana."

The look on his face tells Santana it's supposed to be an unsaid approval, a genuine pride, and Santana's supposed to feel good about it all – about growing up, about taking charge, about hiding her emotions like a master grifter.

Yet all Santana feels is a sudden hollow that may have just felt better, if ironically, she was allowed to feel terrible about it.

But instead, she keeps her head held high and concentrates on how there are people who want to see her hurt so much right now, and it's not a show they deserve to watch.

* * *

It's hours into the morning before Santana makes it back to her room, her mother having only fallen asleep from crying. There is a part of her that doesn't want to leave the room at all, because tucked between those sheets is her mother, alone on a huge bed, where she's used to having her father's strong arms hold her to sleep.

And Santana knows when her mother wakes up again, this mother who's so incredibly sick of pretending that nothing's wrong, she'll start crying again. She'll cry over her lost husband, over the irony of losing him in a mob hit and over losing the love of her life. But mostly, she'll cry over losing that one last piece of sanity, that one last connection to the world outside all the intricacies of the Family and its business.

And Santana will be there when that happens – to hold her mother tight and tell her it's alright. But for those few hours she has in the dark and quiet, all Santana wants is to not pretend anymore.

So, wearily, she climbs the steps to her room and peels the clothes off her body, barely managing to get into her bed. It's only after her fingers touch the keys of her phone, does Santana realise that she's not done settling things, not done keeping people safe.

Because she needs to make sure Brittany doesn't come looking for her and Sam doesn't call to ask her why she's missing their game and that Quinn doesn't go and ask all the wrong questions.

So it sends a pang of much-needed relief through Santana when the first two messages she reads are from Sam and Mike, one saying that Puck had explained to him and that he's sorry ( _for what_ , Santana almost snipes, but then she remembers how nice Sam is) and the other a reassuring message saying he had signed Brittany and himself up for a dance camp.

Santana smiles for a moment and deletes the other less important messages she clearly doesn't give a fuck about. That's when she decides to open the voicemail from Quinn, and when she hears a five second silence, Santana doesn't even think twice before she starts on a message to her.

All she types is "Quinneth" and she almost hits send, knowing that Quinn will immediately recognise the sadness that laces her words, even if no one else can. (Santana doesn't usually do one word messages, and she reserves the use of that nickname for only their most intimate moments.)

But instead, Santana disgusts even herself when she fishes out the small, basic phone taped to the bottom of the bed, types out Quinn's number and messages cautiously, "it's me."

"I heard, how are you?"

There are only five words, but Santana smiles at the instantaneous reply, which tells her that Quinn's been waiting for her and that almost makes her feel guilty. But then the Lopez in her is reminded that even if this girl is Quinn to her, she's a Fabray to really everyone else, and Santana chokes.

So she does what she thinks is right and messages back.

"Delete my number, our messages, your call records."

"Already have."

In some messed up way, Santana's proud of her girlfriend at that moment, for knowing what to do, for protecting herself in a way that Santana wants to protect her. So even if it hurts, Santana types it anyway.

"Don't let your family know about us."

The reply takes longer than usual, and when Santana finally reads the message, every shred of pride that once resided in her is instantaneously transformed to disgust and hurt.

"They never did."

It's three words as well and Santana can imagine Quinn using that delicate, soft voice as always, but this time it's laced with guilt and sadness instead of warmth and love.

Those are the three words that make Santana doubt every single thing she thought they had not too long ago. Those are the three words that make Santana wish she had never heard the other three escape from Quinn's lips, or ever say them herself. Those are the three words that force Santana to quietly turn off the phone.

But does she ever have the right to think it was any different? Does she ever have the right to think that she was any different from any of Quinn's other conquests? Does she even have the right to be disappointed or disgusted or just plain fucking depressed?

No.

Santana pulls out the SIM card and breaks it in half, but like that's not enough, she throws the phone towards the wall and with her right hand, angrily sends the knife flying after it.

But she misses. She fucking misses.

She has done this a million times before – hit a moving target, even with her less trained arm, but she fucking misses.

So when she sees the knife lodged against her wall and the phone land on the floor with a loud but harmless thud, Santana actually cries.

Santana legitimately lets herself go and feels tears on her face. But she never manages to find out what exactly for: her body doesn't let her stop sobbing until she hears her mother waking up downstairs. And by then, there isn't time for her to think as Santana anymore. So she showers, makes up and then puts on her best black dress before purposefully walking down the stairs again.

* * *

Mike actually makes it for the funeral. He comes with his father and two of his eldest brothers, and gently squeezes Santana's hand when they meet. He doesn't say much, but he passes her his phone, wherein there's a video with Brittany telling her how much she wished she could be there and giving her virtual hugs. It makes her smile a little and he pats her shoulder lightly before he goes back to his father's side.

Sylvester flies in from California as well, dressed in a black track suit which Santana imagines must be the most formal piece of attire in her wardrobe. (Sylvester uses her job as cheerleading coach and that  _Fitness_  chain she owns to select the finest recruits for her contract killer academy. Her Nationals-winning team is well-known to kick ass in more than one way.) There's a small contingent that follows her, but most of them stay outside and she doesn't mince her words when she speaks to Santana.

"I was expecting Gloria to take charge, but instead there's you. I care for your father as much as I do the homeless man that sleeps down the street from my apartment, but your grandfather was always kind to me and Sue Sylvester remembers her friends almost as well as she remembers her enemies."

Sylvester continues with some snipe about how Santana's boobs put her otherwise respectable body off balance, but Santana too tired to hear any of it and it isn't until Sylvester places a small black, fedora on her head that Santana's eyes jerk up.

"Your grandfather gave it to me and it never really matched my tracksuit anyway." Sylvester shrugs and leaves before Santana has a chance to reply. Santana smiles, just a little, and when she rejoins her elders, she spots her granduncle Miquel looking at the fedora fondly. Her mother kisses her for the first time since they got news of her father's death.

She spends the rest of the day alternating between staring at her watch and pacing near the entrance. She ends the day disappointed and she lets no one know. Instead, she waits till she's back in her room and curled up on her bed, legs tucked close to her body, face in her hands before she weeps, desperately once more.

Rachel Berry actually ambushes her in the girl's toilet, complete with a hand-crafted card of condolences and a box of chocolates. Santana tells her to get on with her lame speech, which Rachel gladly obliges, but about fifty seconds into it, Santana tells her to  _just stop_.

There's a stunned look on Rachel's face when Santana starts walking out of the bathroom, but then she stops in her tracks before she leaves and smiles gently.

"I'll buy you and Puck drinks, someday."

Santana doesn't say "thank you" because she'd rather be caught dead than say that to Rachel, but it comes close and Rachel knows it. Because a bright smile reforms on her face and there's that almost irritating, chirpy voice.

"Noah and I would most certainly appreciate..."

"I'll text you. And could you not call him  _Noah_? It's super weird."

Santana rolls her eyes for good measure, but there's an undeniable, small smile on her face.

"We were making good progress, Santana!"

"Baby steps, Berry, baby steps."

NYPD actually listens to their demands and waits till after the funeral, before paying their house visit. Santana had Puck give them all the information they needed (most things about her father were public domain anyway and certainly none of it needed hiding) in the meantime, but Santana was sure they'd act like something crawled up their ass and died there.

Or that they'd do something completely morbid and fucking disrespectful like sending Schuester himself to do the damn interview.

So it surprises her when the detectives that turn up at her door are incredibly polite and actually introduce themselves as detectives from  _Homicide_ , badges and all. They look awkward, not angry and one of them actually sounds apologetic when she says "I'm sorry for your loss."

Santana remembers her name. Santana remembers how she directed Shelby and her partner to the study room, partly because she couldn't stand the number of memories in her living room and partly because most of her father's personal belongings were there. She remembers how Shelby told her to tell her everything and actually sounded like she meant it.

Santana tells her how her father doesn't deserve to get killed, that as terrible as their name is (Shelby winces uncontrollably here), her father is clean. Santana tells her how it has to be someone incredibly morbid to push her father through the glass of his office and let him bleed to death at the foot of the  _hospital_  he works in. Santana even tells her it'll be long before her Family moves on.

She doesn't cry, but Shelby gives her tissue anyway and when they leave, Shelby actually cautiously squeezes her shoulder, trying to reassure her. Neither of them mentions how they've already got a fucking good guess who's the mastermind behind the hit and that the visit was merely obligatory.

It's only after they leave that Santana knows she can't delay it anymore – even though it has been easier trying not to think about Quinn, than having to think about how Quinn might have known about this hit  _all along_ , than having to think about how the Fabrays are going to have to pay.

Santana tells herself she doesn't love Quinn.

* * *

He arrives with his daughters right behind him, a smug look on the son-in-law that follows behind. Santana grasps her mother's hand and squeezes firmly as they make eye contact and it takes all her strength not to step forward and just slap the guy. He has had the guts to send a letter claiming credit for the hit and it's such an obnoxious move, even Mike scorned it.

It's neither classy nor clean, and Santana's best guess is that the hit wasn't even approved. It only took the distaste in Russell's voice to confirm her suspicions. He's not stupid enough to tear his gang apart by publicly humiliating his son-in-law, but it's clear that the Fabrays are far from happy with what has happened.

And here comes Russell Fabray, putting himself and his loved ones at their mercy, trying to redeem the letter, clean up this mess. If it weren't for the fact that Santana can still pick out the slight shiver in her mother's every step, Santana would actually be impressed by his bravery.

But then the facts are clear: a hit on her father – practically a civilian – regardless of whether it was approved or not, is definitely the  _cowardly_ way out.

Santana takes one look at her mother and instinctively steps forward, her eyes meeting Russell's and she stares. Hard. She stares hard because deep inside she knows people still call the man  _Colonel_. The term's supposed to be affectionate – back when his father was a  _vor_  and Russell was earning the tattoos he has hidden under his finely-tailored suit. But his reputation grew to exceed his father's and if there's one thing the world can be certain about Russell Fabray, it's that you do not mess with the man.

But this time, Santana knows she can't afford to be intimidated. There's just far too much at stake here.

So she keeps her hand (and anxiety) in her pocket, gently touching the knife there and lets the words fly out with as much force as she can manage.

"You've gone too far."

She steadies her voice and swallows firmly, her eyes never meeting Quinn's. Instead, she concentrates on the short silence that follows, the one that convinces her that she has managed to get the man thinking, calculating, plotting.

It's almost a small victory in itself.

But then he smirks a little and speaks coldly.

"Pick one. Anyone here that isn't a Fabray. Throw me a name and you can do whatever you want with him or her."

The outrage in Santana overwhelms her and she nearly starts yelling, even though she knows it will make her look weak in front of everyone else.

But then it's like he knows what she's thinking and he deftly raises an eyebrow, as if to challenge her.

"He wasn't a Lopez anyway."

Santana's legs turn weak at the thought, because the comment hits her hard. More so, it hits her mother with a force that's only challenged by the persistence of guilt. Her father never should have gotten involved in this mess, but by virtue of this fantastic thing called  _love_ , he found himself killed– for no good reason. But what really,  _really_  gets Santana, is neither the snark in his voice nor the way her eyes instinctively fly towards Quinn for comfort (Quinn's eyes fleet away just as fast), but the fact that despite all of her wit, she can't find a single argument to combat its truth.

By her side, Puck nearly steps forward to confront the man, doing what Santana wishes she had the guts to do, but she stops him with her arm and a firm gaze.

"Finn Hudson," Santana replies firmly, her eyes locked onto Russell's, even though she has no real idea why she picked him.

There's just enough time for two breaths, before anyone speaks again.

"Go on, Finn."

The boy steps forward, a splash of confusion on his face as he stands awkwardly between the two families. Russell steps forward and silently disarms him, the Glock placed on the table with a loud thud. For a moment, Santana thinks she spots a spark of regret, as Russell places a hand on Finn's shoulder and says quietly, "I will take care of your mother."

 _I will take care of your mother_.

Santana repeats those words in her head, wondering what it must feel like to lose your husband in a war and your son in a mafia trade-off and it's a thought she entertains throughout the course of the day. She thinks about it while passing the incriminating letter over to Russell Fabray; she thinks about it as she avoids Quinn's disappointed gaze (fuck her, she's not allowed to judge anyone at the moment); she thinks about it as she tries to numb out Finn's pitiful calls of desperation.

It's  _disgusting_  when Santana finally realises that yet another innocent person is going to take the blame for the shit done between the two families. And it's practically  _revolting_  when she realises that this time, she's the one who made that decision.

But she goes ahead anyway, because she knows the Russians are all about The Code and breaking your promise is a sure-fire way of being looked down by the rest. It sucks, but it works.

It takes a strategic injection of a whole lot of cash to lubricate the system and eventually the description of this felon mutates to a point when it uncannily resembles Finn. The boys drop him off at the precinct addressed to Detective Corcoran and Santana makes sure his defence attorney brings up the sob story of his father. It's almost satisfying when she sees the disgust on Schuester's face as Finn's let off with a six year jail term and the media coo over Corcoran.

But then Mack returns to her house, to the  _Family,_  and Santana can't help but jerk away from her touch, shaking her head as she remembers everything that she has done in Mack's absence – the kind of thing that would generally fall under Mack's purview, the kind of thing Santana was always afraid to be associated with.

Santana doesn't want to cry, but Mack just pulls her in tight and apologises over and over again in clear, definite sentences, like she's practised it a million times before. It's almost robotic, but it's still fucking sincere and when Mack says it, Santana feels like she's not the only one hurting.

"For what?"

Santana croaks out, fighting back the tears she dare not let anyone see.

Maybe Mack didn't expect the question, because it comes out as a soft whisper and as weak as Santana has ever heard Mack for years.

"Everything," followed by a forceful swallow, a moment of hesitation, then, "how long?"

"Twenty three days."

The first tears start to fall and for the first time in a long, long time, she feels the walls she so carefully built up, crack under the pressure of everything and it's just like a dam because you build it there in a hurry, thinking you can just hold it, hold it, hold it, thinking you can do it forever, but there was never a chance it'd succeed and when you eventually let go, it doesn't just dampen your spirit. It drowns you, it fucking drowns you.

"She loved you."

Santana doesn't say "I know" but she sobs against Mack's collarbone, her fingers wrapped tightly around her grandfather's fedora as she wonders how she lost herself. She wonders why Mack used the past tense and she wonders, for a moment, if she's right.

Above everything, Santana wonders if she'll ever find herself again.

She doesn't dare know the answer.


	4. We Are Young

Santana doesn't want to be here. It's been weeks since she dared to come to this place, afraid of what it might be like to face it all over again, but one quiet night she gave in, snuck out and found herself sitting on the grass in her pyjamas. It might have taken a while in the dark, but after she found her spot – no,  _their_ spot – on that field, she couldn't stop coming to the place.

It feels like a terrible addiction: an addiction to a memory, one undeniably tainted but somehow when compared to the current situation, still incredibly attractive. No one ever argued the situation wasn't fucked up – no addict's ever stupid enough to say that – but pulling away from it (from  _her_ ) is a different matter altogether.

It still hurts and while Santana may never have said it out loud, she has never denied it either.

Sitting there, the long grass tickling her calves, her hand gently touching the blade in her purse, Santana feels  _normal_ , for just a brief moment – even if living on memories is anything but normal.

She remembers the way Quinn sounded so certain of the two of them, the way she could hear Quinn's gentle breathing against the silence of the room, the way there was that elusive thing called  _hope_. It was the moment that drove Santana to get Quinn her own custom-made blade, the leather's texture embossed in the traditional Lopez pattern, and on the edge of the handle, the single character  _Q_. She didn't add the character  _F_  because that'd be too fucking obvious and it was hard enough getting that blade done when Santana's left-handed. (Plus it'd always be a sore reminder that Quinn's a Fabray and sometimes, she's  _first and foremost_  a Fabray.)

She did however consider, for just a moment, embossing  _QL_ – perhaps in honour of them, perhaps in honour of that particular memory – and now Santana doesn't know if she's glad or not, that particular permutation of the past didn't eventuate.

She also hasn't decided whether it's a good thing she never got the chance to give Quinn the blade.

It's been easy enough, hiding from her, when you know her precise schedule (funny how she never thought she'd use it for  _this_  purpose when she first bribed that geeky technician from Students Administrative Services) but the feelings? No. It's impossible to numb yourself from feelings that once used to flood you, the ones that you used to thrive on. Maybe the old Santana Lopez could, but the one who sneaked off from Puck, the one sitting alone in an empty field, thinking and at the exact same time, trying not to think? She can't anymore. She can't anymore because she's different.

Because everything is  _different_.

But then she hears them, those things that are exactly the same – the pace of her footsteps against gravel, the gentle clink of her cross against its chain, the smell of her perfume – and suddenly everything hurts more. It hurts because you can only live on memories for as long as you manage to block out everything that's new, everything that's different.

(It's the reason why she avoids her father's hospital and tries not to have extended conversations with Mike, Brittany, her mother– well, everyone actually – because they just don't get it. They don't get that she, Santana Lopez, just can't  _deal_  with it.)

But when Quinn's first words to her are "I'm sorry" instead of her name, a snarky remark or a simple kiss on the cheek, it's a sharp jolt back to reality. Santana jerks away from her touch and shoves the knife back deep in her bag, her eyes avoiding Quinn's gaze as she spits out the words.

"Fuck off, Quinn."

"I'm sorry, San, I didn't know–"

"Didn't know what? Didn't know your brother-in-law was going to send a beast after my father when you told me to stay safe? Didn't know that we were dating? Didn't know that what we had was  _real_?" She pauses and swallows, catching her breath as she wonders if the words, so carefully laced with anger, hurt Quinn as much as they hurt her. Then almost with a tremor in her voice, she continues, "or did it all just mean nothing to you?"

When she finally summons the courage to look at Quinn straight in the eye (just the way she was taught, to disguise her weakness), she sees Quinn staring at the sky, struggling to contain her tears. She'd step forward and just hold the girl tight in her arms, if she knew exactly who the girl in front of her was.

How the fuck does someone go from the one snuggling in her embrace, to the one cold enough to sit emotionless beside her father as they traded the life of one Finn Hudson?

Perhaps when Santana thought that Sam didn't  _know_  Quinn Fabray, she forgot that in some way, she couldn't assume she was any better.

"And," Santana tries bitterly, clenching her fists so tight so can feel her nails against the base of her palm, "you don't get to call me  _that_  anymore." She'd be damned, but when blood gushes to the pain at the base of her palm, it brings with it the rest of the pain from her entire body. So yeah, she presses down a little harder and swallows slowly, telling herself she doesn't like it- she just hates it less than everything else.

"Are you leaving me?"

Santana breathes out heavily and starts walking away from Quinn, her mind focusing on how she shouldn't be hurting if she doesn't love her, how she should hate Quinn for not giving her a chance to save her father, how she should detest herself for not giving them a chance. But then Quinn's fingers wrap around Santana's wrist and she's pulled back, their faces incredibly close and Quinn's tears blatant. And she's so close to those lips, those lips that Santana wants to kiss so bad, even if she knows she shouldn't.

"You can't leave me."

"I didn't," Santana shakes her head and tugs at Quinn's firm grip, " _you_  left me. You left me when you decided I wasn't worth mentioning to your pathetic parents. You left me when you decided not to turn up for my dad's funeral. You left me when you stopped remembering that I was, once,  _yours_. So remember this Quinn Fabray, even if the rumours out there say I'm the heartbreaker, you are the one who ditched  _us_ , not me."

"I'm–"

"Keep it for someone who'll listen, for someone who cares." Santana wrests her arm away from Quinn's grip and walks away quickly, afraid that running will make her look weak, afraid that it'll make it known that she is actually crying.

"You do care, Santana!" Quinn's voice catches up with her, even if the girl herself doesn't, such that Santana can hear the strain in her voice when she enunciates the last few words quietly, "even if you never said you loved me."

She can't tear the hurt away from the anger when she mumbles to herself, "I  _did_ , fuck, I love you, Quinn."

If Quinn hears it, she doesn't acknowledge it.

And it isn't until long after that, when she's rolling Quinn's knife in her hand, the sharp blade unceremoniously cutting into the flesh on her palm, does she realise that she said  _love_  and not  _loved_.

It's even later when Santana realises that the fact that seeing Quinn there, means that she needs her safe place again. And with those harsh harsh words, she robs Quinn of her safe haven, ruining the place with her cruelty.

_Perhaps she'll lose herself too._

Santana pulls down Quinn's photo from a large magnetic board and staring at it, she can't help but fleet her eyes back and forth, from Quinn's photo to the large scheme that resides in her sitting room. Mack has been working on it for weeks, a well-coordinated attack, and somehow, Santana didn't protest when Quinn's photo was tucked at the corner, her name carefully written in capital letters.

_And maybe, in the midst of it, she'll find me._

* * *

Rachel Berry's the one she wakes up to, which would still be fucking scary in any alternate universe. The first sentence she forms against her pounding headache is "Berry, how did you get in and wait– did I sleep with you?"

She asks, partly out of fear and partly out of habit. She asks because she remembers two before meeting Russell, another two before Mack returned and the day before would have been seven if the guy who was grinding into her knew the trick was to buy her tequila shooters.

Thankfully, the sudden lack of colour on Rachel's face suggests otherwise, because Santana just can't deal with having messed up another one of her incredibly antagonistic and somehow mildly enjoyable relationships. All she can remember of last night is having pulled out that small packet of cocaine Mack slipped her before and together with a trusty bottle of Jack Daniel's, wiled away the night, trying to distract herself from everything happening around her.

 _They've all been guys_ , Santana silently reminds herself, pushing the  _why_  out of her head.

Santana squints against the sunlight and makes a move to draw her windows, but her head throbs far too much for her to even consider getting off the bed, so Santana just growls at Rachel and brings up her bed sheets to block the light.

Santana takes the cup of water from Rachel, if only to sooth the itchiness at the back of her throat, but she nearly spits out the water at the next sentence.

"You shouldn't say something like that, Santana, when Quinn loves you."

"What the fuck, Berry?"

"Even though you broke up with her..."

"Hold up, that's what she said? That I broke up with her?" Santana glares unreservedly at Rachel then shoves the empty cup in her direction, her mind suddenly attentive. It's bad enough that Rachel's usually-annoying voice is amplified and Santana knows she's late for one of Mack's fucking detailed meetings.

"No, no, she didn't say so, relax Santana. Last night Quinn gave me a call and I noticed that she was indeed very drunk, as she was constantly yelling about how you made a decision on both of your behalf – which, I disapprove of by the way – and Puck called me this morning saying you needed a friend, so I made the natural connection."

"You're not my friend, Berry, don't flatter yourself." Santana scowls, but she's sober enough to worry about how Quinn drank and whether she is safely at home, even if she knows she shouldn't.

"Santana, you really ought to stop denying facts. We have a very healthy friendship–"

"Get to the part where you enter the estate without Rutherford biting your head off."

"Apparently your family doesn't know that you have no friends in Law school, only people trying to get into your pants, because Puck actually told them we had an urgent project to rush out. Puck said to tell you that he'll give you a summary of what they're having for dinner later."

Santana rolls her eyes at Puck's lousy cover of an excuse. She knows that today, they're going through the final details of their revenge plan, or whatever fancy name Mack likes to give the operation. She almost scoffs at the thought, because when she asked for the one life of Finn Hudson, she thought it was over – that he was trading his life to make sure that none of the others had to lose theirs. But then Mack comes in and convinces everyone (not like they really needed convincing) that Finn's life only bought the incriminating letter and now they are back to avenge her father.

It's undeniably disappointing, but what's worse is how her mother nods firmly at Mack's plans and when their eyes meet, Santana can see a perpetual weariness in those eyes.

_It's like she's never happy anymore._

Santana shakes her head, throws a cube of sugar in her mouth, feeling it melt on her tongue and closes her eyes to think. But nothing comes to her mind, except Quinn, and there's a part of her that wants to run to the field and see if Quinn's there – even if she doesn't know what she'll say.

"You miss her."

"No," Santana denies, but she avoids eye contact, afraid it'll betray her.

"She misses you too."

"No."

"You can't say that."

"Fuck, she doesn't get that right anymore," Santana spits out, but all she can remember is how gentle it felt against her skin when Quinn told her  _she loved her_ , the way their bodies melded into one another and the way she let out a gasp of disbelief when Santana used those harsh words against her. It's fucking confusing and Santana hates that feeling of uncertainty: she hates the idea that their relationship is something she cannot grasp, something she can't hold in her hand and know for sure it exists.

"Everyone has a right to  _love_ , Santana."

"You need to shut up before I throw you out of my window."

"You're not physically capable of doing that, Santana!"

"I fucking am!"

When Santana turns around, Rachel's actually laughing a little, until she sees Santana's pained expression and the girl shuffles close, putting her arm around her shoulder. Santana wants to flinch, but she's craving contact so fucking much and even though Rachel's significantly shorter, the gesture still feels warm and familiar. So Santana leans in and closes her eyes, breathing slowly, trying not to cry.

Because if she just tries hard enough, it's almost like being in Quinn's arms again, even if she can list down all the differences.

She'll tell you Quinn's perfume is a little less flowery and a little more complex. She'll tell you Quinn pulls her in quite a bit tighter, without any of that hesitation and fear. She'll tell you that when she lies beside Quinn, Quinn will never let her get away with just being held and instead will coax her into holding her back.

And there in Rachel's arms, she knows it's only second best.

But she closes her eyes anyway and tries to persuade herself that if Quinn isn't an option, then maybe there won't be a  _first_  and maybe it'll hurt less.

When Puck creeps in and Santana flutters her eyes open, she's glad he doesn't make a remark about threesomes, and instead quietly slips in under the covers, holding Rachel from the back, his strong arms just barely framing the girls.

It's funny, because it's a squeeze on the bed, but somehow, it doesn't make Santana feel any less lonely.

And then she realises: if she loses Quinn, it only means that she's lost her number one and in her place, will be that emptiness.

* * *

0932hrs | _TEXT_ : Let me explain.  
1054hrs |  _TEXT_ : San, I know you've read my text.  
1102hrs |  _TEXT_ : I'm sorry San, I love you. Don't do this to me.

Santana glances at the timer once, pulls her opponent close and holds her there, tight. She waits, with a patience she never had before and sighs unwittingly, for just a brief ten seconds and feels as her opponent struggles desperately in her grasp. Each tug is more forceful than the one before and Santana barely holds her close, their shoulders pressing as Santana maintains the control on her opponent.

The timer beeps, she sighs, lets her go and watches thankfully as the referee declares her the winner. She barely won, no  _ippon_  – not even close actually – and it's kind of pathetic when all she has is a _yuko_. And as a seeded contestant, it's a pathetic performance for her first bout.

Despite the loss, her opponent actually looks pleased with herself and Santana feels an urge to go tell her that she shouldn't be happy with her, not when Santana can tell for sure that she hasn't actually improved since they last met and neither did she display good technique. But Santana decides against it, because it'll necessarily mean she has to admit that she's distracted. And the last thing she wants is a rumour going around that Santana fucking Lopez can't throw an orange belt because she's  _got a chick on her mind_.

Puck confronts her immediately after she steps out of the  _dojo_  and she frowns wearily, not meeting his gaze, but just before he starts to talk, Brittany bravely puts herself between Puck and Santana and holds her hand out like a traffic warden, saying "stop". If Santana weren't so messed up inside, she'd have laughed at that gesture, because it put a fucking hilarious frown on Puck's face, before he turns away and walks out, probably to get himself a smoke.

Santana slumps on the chair, her arms crossed defensively and her eyelids heavy as Mike sits beside her and pats her forearm lightly, his voice worried and angry all at the same time.

"What's wrong with you, Santana, you're going to get injured like this. Concentrate on the game. Is it your hand?"

Santana shakes her head and gently rubs the palm of her hand, a quiet "no" leaving her mouth. But then Brittany turns around and interrupts with her voice sad and her eyes soft, placing her hand tentatively on Santana's shoulder.

"It's her isn't it?"

"No, no of course it isn't." Santana denies blatantly and this time she thinks she ought to sound more convincing – ever since that episode with Rachel, Santana has been practising it over and over again and it seems like it was working. It seems like the more she says it, the easier it is to believe in it.

_Even it is clearly a fucking lie._

"Tell me what happened," Brittany insists and takes a seat beside Santana, moving her hand to hold hers, in what must have been the first significant contact between the two of them since that uncomfortably painful night. Santana sighs, ignoring Mike's puzzled gaze and leans on Brittany's shoulder, the familiarity of that move steadying her heart.

"She wants to explain everything."

"Oh, she wants you back then. Give it a chance."

"I shouldn't."

"You deserve to be happy, Santana. Plus she really cares about you."

Santana looks up and breathes out heavily. She wants to believe Brittany, because of all people Brittany doesn't have a reason to lie about Quinn, no– not after everything that has happened.

"Why would you say that?"

"She's been watching you from the second floor." Santana's gaze glances up immediately, but she sees no one and immediately Brittany feeds her the answer.

"I asked her to leave," she pauses hesitantly and then continues, her voice stronger, "I told her she'd distract you from the match, but I told her I'd talk to you about meeting her after."

"Thank you," Santana whispers and there's a throb in her chest that tells her she shouldn't be thinking about Quinn now and she certainly shouldn't have hoped that Quinn would come to watch. It was supposed to a clean break, no lingering feelings, no persistent thoughts, but there Santana is, wishing she had played better, so that Quinn could see how good she was at what she did.

She wants Quinn to be proud of her, even if they aren't supposed to be  _anything_  anymore.

The whistle blows in preparation for the next round of bouts and when Brittany whispers in her ear a soft, gentle, "good luck," Santana smiles and bravely turns to give her a hug. Mike pats her on the shoulder and tries to mimic one of those low growls Santana used to do on the dojo to scare her opponent. It's a bad imitation and it makes her laugh, which honestly is more than anything Santana can ask for.

Even Puck offers her a fist bump, which she gladly accepts.

Santana fights her way to the final, telling herself to give her opponent the respect she deserves and to at least do something  _right_  by winning the fucking title. She growls as she gets on the dojo, her arms flung out in an aggressive move as she shuffles confidently from side to side until she gets the grasp on her opponent's lapel. She ignores the throbbing pain along her palm, the cut so deep, she's sure she'll get a scar from it.

She tells herself she's allowed to miss her father and damn, she's allowed to wish he was there to see her play, but she's not allowed to let him down by losing.

Pulling her opponent in close, Santana pulls her along in tight, small, shifts on the  _dojo_  until she gets her in just the right position and she swings her hips in against her opponent's, lifting her right leg in a clean sweep and pulling her arm to the left in a continuous movement, until she hears the girl falls with a loud thud.

Santana sees the raised arm of the referee indicating her win, she hears the cheers from her friends, she feels the medal in her hand, but they all don't reach  _her_  as she goes through each stage trying to feel again.

She wants to feel exhilarant, accomplished, granted she even wants to feel arrogant, but everything just feels numb, like it doesn't matter anymore, like  _nothing_ matters anymore.

_Somehow, hurting looks like a much better alternative._

It's not until Brittany takes her in a sweaty, sweaty hug and whispers in her ear "she's waiting outside for you" above all the congratulations, does Santana feel again. She's not sure what it is – whether it's hurt or anger or love, plain fucking love – but she feels again, and for that moment, it's enough. When she peels away from the embrace and looks into Brittany's sad blue eyes, she summons all her courage and asks, "how did you know?"

"She told me."

"No, how did you  _know_?"

Brittany's face drops for just a moment and Santana desperately tries to push that captured memory out of her mind as Brittany struggles as much with the reply.

"It was the same with" Brittany swallows slowly and breaks eye contact briefly, "us. It was the same the day after I first told you I loved you. You didn't play properly until I pulled you aside and told you that I meant it and that if you didn't know how to say it back, you could just show me."

"I won that competition, even though I was playing in the heavier weight category."

"Yes, you did. That's when I  _knew_."

Santana wonders if she fell in love with Brittany long before she realised and in some way, whether she had effectively cheated on her with Quinn. Santana wonders if it would ever be possible for her to compare her love for Quinn with the one she had with Brittany and even if it were entirely different, whether it was any less  _real_. Santana wonders what it must be like to be Brittany and fall in love with a person – no reservations whatsoever – and whether Quinn, whether she herself, has even been anything close to that level of commitment.

Most of all, Santana wonders what it'd be like if she has all of Quinn and Quinn has all of her.

She pushes the cold piece of metal in her hand – the one people all across the hall have been literally fighting over the last couple of hours – into Brittany's hands and runs towards the car park. When she sees Quinn's deep blue car, she nervously whacks on the door until Quinn opens it.

_How is it that even with that fucking dishevelled hair and her parts of her makeup wiped off, Quinn can still look fucking incredible?_

There's so much Santana wants to say, so much she wants to show – love, hurt, fear, everything. She wants to start with  _I love you_  and talk about everything and ask her everything and cry and smile and just  _feel_. But for some reason, she just stands there and stares. She stands there and stares at Quinn, until Quinn's arm reaches over and holds hers and somehow, she doesn't jerk away.

She lets Quinn guide her to the passenger seat and slowly close the door, she waits quietly until Quinn sits back on her side and she lets Quinn reach over and gently lace their fingers together. She breathes out, slowly and as quiet as possible, then just two seconds later, she hears the same from Quinn.

The inside of Quinn's car smells like her favourite perfume, and when she sees a bottle of it sitting at the centre compartment, she smiles. Along with it is a Jane Austen book, that bookmark she bought for her (it's a hand, outstretched, so it looks like someone's trapped in the book) and a cup of coffee.

It's not Starbucks.

She wonders if she's the only one who can see this Quinn, this human side of Quinn, this Quinn she loves so much. It's selfish, but she sure as hell hopes so. (If everyone else falls in love with  _her_  Quinn as well, will Quinn still love her?)

Then, as if Quinn can hear that question, she leans over and gently uses her other hand to guide Santana's face so that their eyes meet. When she says those words, she doesn't waver.

"I love you, Santana. Please. I love you."

* * *

Quinn sits down beside Santana, holding her hand tight and Santana tightens her fist nervously. Everything was easy at first; ditch thinking and just  _feel_ everything – passionate kisses, travelling hands, desperate moans of each other's name, all making up for lost time. But then the adrenaline dies down, their heartbeats slow and immediately Santana starts to recall how each of Mack's plans could put Quinn in danger, destroying them  _both_  if anything happens.

Letting out a breath, Santana leans into Quinn's embrace and tries not to think.

 _It's always easier not to think_ , Santana tells herself.

But Quinn's voice is fragile and filled with worry as she explains herself.

Quinn explains how she didn't approve of how her brother-in-law went about dealing with things (neither did her father), how she didn't know he had planned to hit someone so  _high up_  on the Lopez food chain, how she didn't know he'd succeed.

Uncertainty breaks the usual rhythm of Quinn's speech and with each pause, Santana's heart drops a little. (It's painfully obvious that the girl she fell in love with, broke too.)

Santana nods quietly and tries to digest the information, Mack's warning ringing at the back of her head as she tries not to suspect Quinn at all, as she tries to believe that Quinn –  _her_  Quinn – had no malice whatsoever. It's difficult, when it always feels like Quinn's hiding and while it's now pretty clear that both of them are hurting, Santana can't help but wonder if she's the one hurting  _more_ , if she's the one who  _needs_ Quinn in a way that Quinn doesn't.

Because as comforting as Quinn's explanations are, those are not the words Santana wants to hear.

She wants Quinn to admit her own emotions, her own fears – she wants her to say that she worries for Santana in the same way that Santana worries for Quinn; she wants her to say that it may not have been the right thing to do, but hiding their relationship, was Quinn's fucked up way of protecting them; she wants her to say that losing Santana turned out to be more painful than either of them imagined.

Santana doesn't want to regret the desperate kisses, the earnest  _I love you_ s, the way Quinn's skin felt against hers. But there, in Quinn's arms, remembering the innocence of their past, Santana can't help but wonder if their relationship will ever be the same again.

But then again, will her  _life_  ever be the same again?

"I can save you," Santana says almost too confidently, her arms tightly looped around Quinn's waist, as she feels Quinn's fingers play with her hair, its familiarity as much empowering as it is crippling.

"I can save  _us_ , but you'll have to make a decision, you'll have to choose."

Santana looks up nervously and when their eyes meet, she tries to tell herself she's thinking too much, once more. She tries to tell herself she's seen that look before and that the expression she reads from Quinn's beautiful hazel eyes, isn't fear.

* * *

They agree to meet at a classy tea restaurant, the kind where the both of them sit cross-legged on warm wood with a fancy little short table in front of them and a menu of teas Santana cannot pronounce. They both have men waiting outside for them – her because the operation has begun and every minute Santana spends outside the estate is deemed dangerous, him because Papa Chang is on good enough terms with Gloria to be warned beforehand – and they both try to make sense of the teas, but eventually they give up.

In the end, they nearly burst into laughter when Mike shrugs and orders a Coke with Santana following suit.

Santana ends up smiling into her knitted eyebrows, because the one time she actually made plans to have a formal meeting and picked a place she was sure Papa Chang would have approved, Mike acts exactly like himself and orders a fucking Coke.

_If only everything could be this normal._

Well not everything, since Mike did turn up with a small delegation and in addition to his fine suit, Mike's tie is actually put together properly. So Santana nods and keeps her mind on the agenda for today's meeting, her fingers gently turning the can of coke on the table, watching the condensation leave an imprint on the wood that will disappear soon after they leave.

It's Mike who breaks the silence and for his courage, Santana is thankful.

"What you're doing, it's dangerous."

"I know," Santana replies and she wonders briefly how much more applicable those words would be, if Mike actually knew what was happening, what Santana plans to do outside of Mack's pretty little plan.

He breathes out, steadying his voice, "but I understand why you must do it."

She frowns innately at the sentence, a quiet laughter resonating across the room as she wonders if he'll ever really  _understand_.

"As much as I adore you, I didn't call you for this pep talk, Chang." Santana quickly adds, a desperate attempt to lighten up the atmosphere. But really, there's only one thing that she needs him to promise.

"You need to keep Brittany out of this."

"I will."

"No," Santana shakes her head firmly, "not just out of  _this_ , but out of everything. If you can't, you  _have_ to let her go. She can't deal with this the way we deal with it, she's not born to watch people die, to worry about whether her boyfriend is going to get shot by the next enemy on the street, to risk her life just trying to live it."

The words come out in one breath, a bitter reflection of what she'd be forced into by virtue of her heritage. She knows Brittany has a way out of this and maybe, by virtue of Mike Chang's incredibly kind heart and impressive number of brothers, he'll have a way out too. She knows that there's no way out for her and probably no way out for Quinn either, no matter how hard they try.

The two of them will just have to try to make the best out of it.

Santana thinks she has everything settled in her mind, the puzzles fitting perfectly, just lacking Mike's one promise, settling her one worry, but then he reaches over and gently places his hands around hers.

His eyes meet hers and all she can see is sincerity.

"Of course I'll keep her safe, Santana. But you don't have to deal with this either. No one's ever  _born_  to do this."

* * *

Santana prints out a photo of Blaine and puts it up beside Quinn's, writing his name down below in small, regular block letters. It's scary really, Santana hadn't expected someone to take Finn's place quite as quickly and with Blaine having always been around, Santana can't help but wonder if the Fabrays have their people all over their school.

Santana remembers Blaine from Fight Club and that one time he actually tried out for  _judo_ , she remembers his undeniably athletic self doing rolls and cartwheels somewhat clumsily. He definitely had the raw strength and stamina for the sport, but Santana instinctively deployed her veto power and refused his admission. That time, Santana put it down to lack of discipline (really, martial arts isn't for fucking around) but right now, Santana thinks maybe she went with her guts and it worked.

God knows what would happen if she had to distance herself from judo as well.

These days, the house is quieter and the board a lot messier – Mack's out there running the show and her mother, well her mother's too weary nowadays to be going about with her previous splendour. These days, Santana's happy enough if her mother makes it down the stairs with a forced smile, glances briefly at the board and swallows whatever the help cooks up that day.

Sometimes, Santana tries to engage in a conversation with her. But each time, she sees the guilt in her mother's gaze and it trips her all over, like she's being too damn selfish if she tries to be happy, like she's supposed to completely give herself up in favour of the Family's greater good, like she's just not good enough.

At some point, it makes her hate herself more than she hates everyone else. And that scares the fuck out of her.

So Santana doesn't try anymore. Instead, they both sit there quietly and watch Mack go through the finer details of the operation, scheming with a deviousness that Santana can only wish she never knew. But then again, that's what has kept Mack alive while each crossed out picture indicates a person dead in her hands and right now, there are about six crosses, each individual a carefully calibrated hit against Russell himself.

There's Viktor, one of his childhood friends, now turned advisor. Mack had the boys gun him down as he went to his favourite breakfast place – poetic, she says – and dump his body in front of his son's school.

There's his nephew, a newly minted professor with an interest in poetry, known in small European academia circles for his brutally honest yet curiously hilarious take on life. He's visiting the country to give but two talks in one of the more well known high schools in the city, bringing his young family on their first visit to America. It suffices to say his children will probably never want to enter this country ever again.

They were the first two taken out.

(And the police can't do anything about it – before, bribery was all about the people on the ground and the Russians, they have a grasp of persuasiveness, a promise of silence amongst the  _vory_ , which kept a good part of them safe. For a good part of time, Russell himself had that same influence, but with Mack's gamechanger, any such attempts were only futile. By the time she's done, Santana guesses that half the captains in the relevant precincts will be bought over. It's dangerous, it's expensive, but the payback? You can only imagine the power shift.)

Santana doesn't remember the names or death sentences of the other four, the way she doesn't register the way Mack plans to take out the several other targets laid out on the board: it's just too damn tiring. So instead, Santana keeps her eyes on Quinn's photo and thinks about how the faster they kill, the faster  _this_  will end and maybe, they can just go back to before.

Or as close to it as possible: Santana no longer tries to correct the boys – Rutherford included – when they call her "Ms Lopez" instead of "Santana" and she has grown disturbingly used to bringing a knife even to the shower. She only meets Brittany and Rachel in school, and for brief periods, saying as little as possible, even if it feels like she has so much to say. She visits her dad's tomb at least once a week (even remembering to bring flowers) and sometimes when she's feeling really morbid (or guilty, however way you'd like to see it), she actually writes hugely insulting, mildly apologetic letters to Finn Hudson.

She never sends them.

Instead, she pushes all her feelings down and waits, patiently, for Quinn's answer. With each day that passes, Santana uncovers new flaws in her supposedly brilliant plan, the one that was so hurriedly formed on a scaffold of instinct (and of desperation), but she  _hopes_. She hopes that Quinn will choose  _her_ , choose  _them_ , even if it's undeniably a tough decision.

With each day that passes, she realises that maybe  _love_  isn't enough after all.

But even that doesn't stop her from hoping.

* * *

"Get out, Mack."

Santana concentrates on throwing the knife, Quinn's knife, and it's just feeling  _good_ , just feeling  _better_ , when Mack steps into her room and destroys the memory Santana's so desperately trying to recreate.

"Santana, we need to talk."

"No, get the fuck out, Mack."

"Stop being so angry, Santana!"

"I will fucking throw this knife at your face, if you don't get out."

Santana nearly turns to aim the knife at Mack, but before she can do that, Mack has her body in front of her, those eyes daring her to actually throw the knife. Frustrated, she throws her knife and intentionally misses Mack, turning around abruptly and sitting on her bed.

 _Since when did she rein in her anger like that?_  It's downright disappointing.

"You're hurting, Santana."

"Of course, I'm hurting, Mack. Fuck, I'm not you."

Santana looks up just in time to catch a look of hurt wash over Mack's face, but she doesn't even feel a little bit of regret at her move. It's not her fault Mack can read her so easily, because to everyone else, she's pretty much coping and that's enough for her. She doesn't want to believe that Mack is as heartless as she appears to be, but there's no way that Mack can just sit her down and tell her that she's not allowed to feel – she has tried hard enough to do disguise everything, but it's just fucking tiring and every day just feels like a war.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, yes I'm hurting, Mack. It's fucking normal. Everyone is doing it, even my mother, the mighty Gloria Lopez,  _hurts_. You know, I hardly ever see her smile anymore and even when she does, it's not even half real. We're all hurting, but you,  _no_ , you just go ahead and plan like a machine, pretending that my father never used to put you on his shoulders and bring you around the hospital, telling everyone proudly that you're his god-daughter. What the fuck, Mack? Can't you just cut me some slack, I'm human – I get to hurt."

_If Mack can pretend like everything else doesn't exist, why can't she just push this aside too?_

"I'm doing this for your father, Santana."

"Oh, don't you fucking dare pretend you're being noble or righteous when you're going about your stupid revenge mission."

"He made me a Lopez, Santana."

"What? Oh, Mack, you and your fucking nons–"

"He's the one who made me feel like a part of this family. I was never close enough to the Lopez bloodline to get close to the business and god knows how fucked up my parents were, but he made my childhood feel normal. And look, I'll never take over this business, I'll never gain the respect of the boys the way you do just because you have the  _correct_  surname, but I'm giving back. This is my fucking way of giving back!"

Mack pauses and looks away from Santana, the silence in the room suddenly deafening. Mack has never yelled at her like that, but then again, Santana has never gone so far as to hate Mack either.

"I know you brought me back, Santana. And it was a brilliant move – your granduncles were all impressed, but you have no fucking idea what it means to be a Lopez.  _This_ , this thing you detest so much, that's what it think being heartless, being cold, being rational is easy? Fuck, no. But it's the right thing to do, Santana. It's what gave your grandfather his empire; it's what will help you keep it."

Santana fights the truth in Mack's words and amidst all her confusion and anger, she does the only thing she's confident of doing: she pushes people away. Using the most of her strength, Santana pulls Mack towards the door and pushes her out into the corridor.

"You don't get to teach me what it means to be a Lopez. You don't get to tell me what to do. You don't get to control my life."

The door slams with a desperation Santana wishes she never betrayed, but even that doesn't save her from Mack's last, haunting comment.

"You can try to deny it, Santana, but the truth is you'll always be a Lopez above everything else. And because of that, your life is never just  _yours_ : with that life, you must protect everyone who chooses to serve this Family, even if it means losing yourself."

It'd be easy to push Quinn into making a decision. All Santana has to do is call the Fabray household, ask for Quinn Fabray and state very clearly that she's Santana Lopez. But instead, she waits like she promised she would. She waits, until all the relevant photos have been crossed out, all except one: the man who ordered the hit on her father.

Mack never planned to get rid of the entire Fabray clan (she's not unrealistic like that), but she did plan on exacting revenge in a way that went one circle around. And the way she's doing it, Santana's pretty sure Mack is actually hoping that she'll be a casualty in this war. She almost pities her.

It's not like the Fabrays don't fight back, it's just that they haven't been good enough to get rid of anyone as important.

It's stupid, painful and Santana doesn't even dare count the number of people killed in the process, but she keeps quiet. She lets Mack worry about how to kill the man if Russell has him hiding in Russia, with his wife Frannie. She lets Mack pull contacts and ask for favours, favours that Mack will one day have to return. She lets Mack fight for whatever she claims to be justice, as if it'll help her move on.

Santana waits.

Meanwhile, Russell Fabray makes two more daring visits to the Lopez household, both of which she watches from the side, both of which Quinn misses. Santana betrays no emotion during his visits, even with his taunting sentences and disgustingly dexterous eyebrows. In the first meeting, he offers a truce for the next ten years. In the second, he offers a use of their weapon-smuggling routes as a means to expand the Lopez drug business.

Each time, Mack refuses.

Santana's not sure she would have done the same.

It feels like it pays off, when their informants come back with his whereabouts and Mack actually smiles. A blown up map of Moscow is put up on an adjoining board and with various coloured magnets and carefully drawn lines, Santana watches as an elaborate plan is built to take yet another's life.

Yet this time, it actually feels like he deserves it.

 _I've actually been to Russia, I know a little bit of the language, I'll help you – just this once, of course_  – she nearly says, but she stops herself just in time and runs up to her room noisily, utterly disgusted that she even entertained that thought.

She pulls out her phone and tries not to be disappointed when she sees that there are still no notifications.

 _I will not become that monster_ , Santana tells herself.  _I'm not born to do this_ , she repeats over and over in her head, trying to convince herself that it's true, that she has a way out of this, that she deserves another life. Santana almost succeeds, but then she thinks of her father, she thinks of Mack, she thinks of Quinn and she nearly chokes.

When she hears footsteps outside her door, pacing, she tries her very best to ignore it.

Because this time, she's the one crying alone in her room while her mother takes the easy way out.

They both pretend it didn't happen.

* * *

Santana sits at her usual place by the window and lazily flips through her readings, a tall soy hazelnut latte sitting in front of her the same way the empty chair in front of her usually does. Sometimes, Santana wishes that someone will sit down across her, pick up that latte, sip it and tell her she doesn't drink that commercial shit anymore.

The one time that drink moves, it's when an obnoxious bitch takes  _her_  seat and tries some cheesy pick-up line.

Santana picks up the latte, unceremoniously splashes it all over her and calmly goes back to her readings.

She doesn't really like to recount how Rachel Berry's flair for words got her out of that one.

The same way she doesn't like to tell anyone how she actually sits in some of Quinn's larger lectures. She takes a seat at the back of the lecture hall early enough to sneak to the back, late enough to avoid attracting attention. She watches Quinn walk in with her books in her arms and a dimmed, but still brilliant, flair in her steps and then almost disgustingly, Blaine stepping in behind her. She watches her make neat little scribbles in the margin of her notes and occasionally, pause to tap her pen against her lip, thinking about whatever the lecturer is talking about. She watches her play with her hair with her left hand, then tuck it behind her ear and Santana smiles.

Surprisingly, Santana's still getting her As in class. Part of her thinks that Mack may have made some threats to her lecturers and part of her thinks that maybe, for once, the idea of impressionistic marking is helping her.

Just last week, she wrote an essay on how the idea of criminal justice in today's society evades her. The requirement was a minimum of three thousand words. She sent in eight thousand.

Not long ago, before everything, she would have barely made the requirement and wouldn't have believed in half the things she wrote.

Santana pulls out her phone and suddenly fuelled by courage, texts her.

1111hrs | _TEXT_ : I love you. I really do.

Santana watches as Quinn pulls out her phone and stares at it, while Santana's heart beats fast enough for both of them combined. (Secretly, she wonders whether Quinn's heart is pulling off the same acrobatics.) But then Quinn's head tilts just a little and she shoves the phone back into her bag, jerking.

Santana doesn't move for a good half a minute.

When she recovers, her fingers are trembling when she types " _I know your answer_ ", but she doesn't hit send, because Mack's message comes in first.

She picks up her things and walks down the steps until she reaches Quinn's row. Then without saying anything and with the entire lecture hall staring at her, Santana offers Quinn her hand. Their eyes meet, but Blaine keeps quiet and Santana just waits, daring Quinn to trust her and follow her lead. The shock washes off Quinn's face fast enough to be replaced by confusion, but Santana doesn't explain.

She shouldn't have to.

The lecturer doesn't try to stop them – or maybe he does, Santana doesn't remember – and when the two of them walk out of that lecture theatre together, Quinn's hand in hers, Santana grasps firmly and keeps walking.

She grasps onto Quinn's hand like it might be their last time.

And somehow, it feels like Quinn is holding hers in the exact same way.

* * *

They end up at the bleachers and this time, it's quiet.

Santana takes her usual seat and almost regretfully, lets Quinn's hand go.

"Your brother-in-law flies in today."

"Yes," then Quinn frowns, "you know, too."

"I do, though we never expected him to."

"That means Mack does too, and you guys are finally going to do it aren't you?"

"Kill him? Yes. Not me, but she is."

Santana tries not to admit that the only reason why she has Quinn right beside her is because she doesn't want Quinn anywhere near him when Mack's plan is carried out. Santana tries to push away the pain that pounds in her chest, knowing that after today, maybe Mack will get some kind of resolution and she'll be able to move on, but today, Santana is getting anything but resolution. Santana tries to ignore how Quinn's fingers linger near Santana's, begging for them to intertwine, but at the same time, not daring to.

She pulls out the knife from her clutch and balances it in her hand, almost amused by how the blade lays parallel to the scar she has on her palm.

"I know your answer," she says, bitter and quiet. She wants to be strong, she wants to be calm. If anything, Santana wants Quinn to feel her hurt, but not see her hurt.

"And I made this a while ago, but now," Santana swallows, "there's no point in me keeping it anymore. You should have it." She places the blade precariously on Quinn's hand and instinctively shifts away after.

"I'm s-sorry", Quinn replies weakly and tries to pull Santana close, but this time Santana knows she can't let Quinn do that to her  _again_ , so she abruptly stands up and crosses her arms in front of her chest, desperate for the distance.

"Don't."

"Santana."

"Santana Lopez," Santana replies, cold, cocky and arrogant, the way she was trained to speak, the way she never found the heart to speak to Quinn. Quinn frowns, but Santana tells herself that she shouldn't let that simple gesture hurt her, derail her from breaking it clean, this time, even if now, it's clear that both of them are hurting, almost as much.

But then again, it's pretty clear that Quinn still has this thing called  _logic_  when she, has fallen in so deep, she hasn't got a remnant of it left.

"It wasn't all that hard. After today, your dad won't have much for him left. But you know what he has? Your sister. You know what I have? Nothing."

If her mother hears it, Santana knows her mother will cry. Maybe it was that night, when her mother didn't come into the room to comfort her, or maybe it was earlier, when she hadn't been brave enough to comfort her mother, but it's clear enough that they will never be the same again. And Mack? For all the time before when they leaned on each other, Santana knows now neither of them is emotionally strong enough to bear that kind of burden anymore. For a long time, Santana tricked herself into believing that she'd have Quinn, even if at the back of her mind, she knew it was never going to happen.

It still hurts.

"Santana, it's not that simple."

 _Why not?_  Why can't Quinn just pick her? Why can't Quinn take a leap of faith, do something irrational, just go with her heart for once? Why can't Quinn love her the way she loves Quinn? She's practically standing on the edge of a cliff, telling Quinn that if she says yes, Santana will jump with her.

"Yes, it is. Yes, it should be, it fucking should be. I can protect you. I can fucking protect you!"

Who would have thought that Santana fucking Lopez would become the hopeless romantic, struggling not to break her heart leaving Quinn Fabray? Not her, that's for sure.

(You know what the sad part is? She's not sure she would have done any different if she had a chance.)

"No, you can't."

"Yes I can, Quinn, if that's the last thing I do." Santana's voice cracks at that last word, but her face hardens to make up for it and she desperately tries to keep that wall up. Both their hearts break a little more.

"I bet that's what your mother said to your dad."

Santana instinctively steps backward, disbelief hitting her as she replays Quinn's words in her head. She replays it over and over, wondering how she ever let that happen, how she ever let Quinn close enough to hurt her in a way she never thought anyone could.

"I'm sorry, Santana."

 _She's definitely a Fabray_ , Santana scoffs.

"Oh definitely, sure you are."

_Because this must have been exactly what her mother felt when Russell spelt those words out so fucking clearly._

"I really am, Santana. I really am, shit I really shouldn't have said that." Quinn's voice strains in a way Santana struggles not to notice, like she can barely steady her voice and it mirrors the way her heart is hurting, the way her legs threaten to crumble beneath her.

She's never felt quite as weak as this before.

"Fuck off. God, I can't believe I ever loved you."

"You don't say that, Santana. You don't fucking get to say that to me."

"Well sure as hell I am, unless you got some sniper waiting out here to kill me too?"

"Why on earth would I–"

"Guess what? I don't know. I don't know you, not anymore."

* * *

She's the one who finds the body. She drives home at top speed and runs over his body, lying just a few metres out from the estate gate. She'll never forget that crunching sound under her car and it'll take her years before she goes near the car again, even if it's the last birthday present from her father.

She never drives it again.

Mack inspects the body and her granduncles all get a peek. It's not half as satisfying that they didn't do it herself, but Russell's a smart man and somewhere within that Code is a promise to get rid of those amongst them thieves who lacked that honour. Out of respect, Mack sends his cleaned up body to the Precinct, instead of leaving it out there to rot. But before they do, Santana silently peels off from his body, a Polaroid of her and Quinn at the bleachers, that first time when Quinn had her hair to the side and she was in that beautiful long skirt.

She cries.

And Mack lets her keep the photograph. In return, Santana promises to spend summer in California, with Sue Sylvester, doing suicides and training herself in ways she never thought was humanly possible. She returns with muscles at places she didn't want them at and plays in a higher weight category, just because.

She always spends her summers in California.

For a good year after, when she accidentally steps out of her schedule, or when Quinn does, they awkwardly pass each other at corridors. Neither of them gives way, their shoulders brushing in the slightest of ways. When her heart starts aching, she wonders if it's from the contact, or the lack thereof.

They both learn how to not step out of their schedules.

And if it's at all possible, they learn how to forget each other.


End file.
